Eight and Eighth
by Marmalade Fever
Summary: Up from the ashes of seventh year grow the roses of the eighth. Eight students return for their final year at Hogwarts, and Hermione Granger would never have thought Draco Malfoy would or could be one of those roses. DMHG, EWE Dramione Awards winner
1. First Summer After the Fall

Eight and Eighth

Chapter 1: First Summer after the Fall

By Marmalade Fever

Disclaimer: I do not own nor claim the_ Harry Potter_ series, belonging to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made.

It was the honeysuckle that Hermione remembered the most from that glorious summer. Lying in the orchard, surrounded by blossoms, the sweet scent of their blooms teasing her nose, making her giddy. The way the breeze played with Ron's hair, ruffling the red, ultimately sending bright yellow pollen up his nose and making him sneeze.

Ron had a powerful sneeze. He was a big boy, thus with a big nose, thus with a big sneeze, like a train wreck. It made her laugh, watching his eyes turn red and watery as he grappled to regain his momentum. Ultimately, he'd had to quit the orchard in order to get his mother to find him an allergy potion—and a handkerchief. But Hermione had remained there, simply breathing in life—in a slightly less violent way than Ron—simply happy to be. Their great burden was finally over.

In a way, she wasn't sure if this meant that life had just begun or just ended. Voldemort had played such a crucial role in her life for the last seven years that the loss of something important to do left her almost confused. It just felt strange to be able to relax, no worries at all… well, except for the big question: what _now_?

She had bloody well missed her seventh year of school. And NEWTS! How was she supposed to function in life if she had never actually completed her schooling?

The answer came in the form of a letter, actually, three letters. Ginny got one as well, but hers was a little different.

Pig was thoroughly weighed down that morning. The four Gryffindors sat around the breakfast table, helping themselves to blackberry cobbler, the other Weasleys up and going about their morning already. Pig's miniscule wings fluttered hard just to be able to stay aloft.

The loss of Hedwig was still affecting Harry. Twice this summer, as they window-shopped in Diagon Alley, he'd very nearly gone into Eylops only to change his mind at the last minute and rush into Quality Quidditch Supplies instead, wasting his money on an entire set of balls and a new broom, the Skybeam Millenium.

Hermione took up the letter addressed to her, giddy when she saw the Hogwarts' emblem pressed into the wax seal. What really excited her, though, was the slight weight that shifted inside the envelope. Very carefully, with her finger she slid the letter open, and a piece of metal fell into her palm.

The badge was only about an inch in height, a dull metallic color, like steel. "Deputy Head Girl," it said, in large polished letters. She mused for a moment over the word deputy, her fingers already itching as she set the badge down to open the letter.

Across the table, Ginny squealed, holding up her _own_ Head Girl badge. Hermione had to fight to keep her mouth from dropping open. Harry looked in equal shock. He too had a badge of some sort. It was Ron alone who had received just a letter. Hermione turned back to the text, determined to find out just what exactly was going on.

_Dear Ms. Granger,_

_I am pleased to inform you that Hogwarts: School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would like to invite you back in order to complete you__r education. Because you are of age and have already been away from school for a year's time, it is completely up to you whether or not you wish to attend in the fall. All those "Eighth Years," as I have dubbed them, will be exempt from certain school rules. For example, if you do attend, you will be given free __rein__ to visit __Hogsmeade__ during your spare time._

_We regret to inform you that, due to the unexpected influx of students, there are no beds available in any of the existing dormitories. However, accommodations have been made available in a previously uninhabited part of the castle for all those who wish to repeat their seventh year. __A small common room as well as one __girls'__ and one boys' dormitory will be available to you._

_Furthermore, I am pleased to inform you that, should you make your return, you will be given the title of Deputy Head Girl. We, the staff, found it unfair that you, Ms. Granger, should be denied the right to the title that you have so long deserved. However, we also did not wish to deprive the "First Time Seventh Years" from the opportunity to have their own Head Boy and Girl. Therefore, you will strictly be Head Girl in title, while Ms. __Ginevra __Weasley__ will be performing__ the__ actual Head Girl duties. You will still be given the ability to deduct and award House Points and bestow detentions as you see fit._

_Attached, please find a list of books and supplies. Please send a reply by owl, informing of your decision._

_Sincerely,_

_Professor Minerva McGonagall_

_Head Mistress, Hogwarts: School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Hermione hadn't exactly been aware of the overwhelmingly large grin that just spread itself across her face. The previous summer, she hadn't once mentioned her immense disappointment that she'd be missing out on her final year of school. If she had mentioned the fact that she was missing her NEWTs preparation… well. And obviously she had wanted to be Head Girl more than anything ever since her first day at Hogwarts. Actually, it was more ever since she'd received her _first_ _letter_.

"Well," said Ron, finally looking up. He, for one, looked a bit disappointed, which made complete and total sense, for him. "I can already tell that _someone's_ made up her mind to go." He tipped his head in Hermione's direction. "And while, personally, I'd rather not go through all that homework, again, or… ugh… do NEWTs," he grimaced, "I guess it's probably a good idea."

Harry snorted. He had a cautious smile in place. "Yeah, s'pose so." He looked at Ginny and went a little pink, probably realizing that they would be able to actually have classes together. "I'm game if you lot are."

Hermione squealed, clapping her hands together. "Harry, did you get one too?" she asked. Before he could reply, she'd flitted around the table to pick up his discarded badge. "You _did!_ Oh, Harry!" She hugged him. "And Ginny!" She hugged the other girl's head from behind, causing Ginny to erupt into laughter.

"Am I missing something?" This was from Ron, who sat in befuddlement, his lips twisted into a half grin, half scowl.

"Oh, sorry," Hermione apologized. She couldn't keep herself from smiling, though. She tried to be sober, the memory of when they had all received their letters before fifth year rising to the surface of her brain. "Ginny's been made Head Girl."

Ron grinned, though he looked a little put-out at the same time. "What is it with us Weasleys and being Heads?" he asked. "That's the third one in the family. But that doesn't explain the two of you," he added, looking pointedly at Harry first, then Hermione.

She took in a deep breath. "I've been named Deputy Head Girl." She paused. "I guess it's mostly just an honorary title."

Ron smiled. "Which I guess means Harry…"

Harry nodded. "Yeah. Deputy Head Boy. Whoop-de-doo." Despite the sarcasm, Harry did look a bit on the proud side.

Ron, apparently, decided to save Harry the trouble of trying to down-play his victory. "Well, then congratulations, mate!" He stopped to scratch his head, his hair flopping to the side. "But how? You were never a prefect."

Harry shrugged. "Neither was my dad," he pointed out.

There was a moment of silence before Hermione squealed again. "You have _no_ idea how happy this makes me," she exclaimed. "Going back to Hogwarts again…" She was getting misty-eyed. "The grounds, the professors, the classes…"

"The books?" Ginny offered.

Hermione didn't bother to glare at her, sighing happily instead.

Ron shrugged, still looking warily at Hermione. He turned his attention to Harry. "I guess that means we'll get to play Quidditch."

Harry nodded. He'd started frowning a minute earlier, and the others only now noticed. He sighed. "But it'll be different, at school I mean." His comment didn't go unheard. The others exchanged a silent look. He was right. For one thing, only a handful from their class would be returning for school, the others having finished up in the spring. Besides this, some of their teachers would be gone as well.

There had been a time in which all four of them would have welcomed the loss of Severus Snape as a professor with arms wide open. Now? Now was just… different.

Out of curiosity, Hermione turned to her still unread list of school books. She skimmed, looking for something she couldn't quite let herself name at first. "Defense Against the Dark Arts isn't being taught," she caught herself, "or, at least it doesn't have a book." She looked up at them slowly. Ginny had taken Harry's hand in hers. Hermione cleared her throat, and another book on her list caught her eye. "Hmm…"

"What?" Ginny asked.

"There's a book listed called _Grieving for the Soul_."

Harry frowned. "What?"

Ron snorted. "What class is that for, I wonder? Sounds like something Umbridge would have ordered."

Hermione simply shrugged her shoulders. "It certainly doesn't sound like a normal textbook, now does it?" She flipped open Ginny's list of books and found the same one listed.

They were distracted as Mrs. Weasley entered the room, clutching _The Daily Prophet_ in one hand. "You get your Hogwarts letter, Ginny?"

"Actually, we all did, Mum," Ginny replied. A smile crept onto her face. "And you'll never guess."

Molly was still frowning, confused. "What?" Ginny held up her Head Girl badge, beaming. Mrs. Weasley was in instant hysterics. "You… you! Oh, Ginny!" She hugged her daughter so fiercely that the younger girl squeaked.

"Can't… breathe…"

"Oh, oh, sorry…" Molly Weasley was smiling broadly, her eyes tearing up immediately. "I think this calls for a celebration!"

"And you haven't even heard the others' news yet," Ginny commented, now that she had her breath back.

"Oh?" Molly turned expectantly toward Hermione, Ron, and Harry.

"We've been invited back to finish our seventh year," Ron said, not looking incredibly ecstatic. "AND, Harry and Hermione have been offered Duputy Head positions.

"Oh! Well that's wonderful news, too! Congratulations to you all!" She set The Prophet on the table. "And I think I might just go bake a cake!" She left the room, humming a Celestina Warbeck song, a skip in her step.

Harry, for one, burst into laughter. "That went well."

Hermione laughed too, picking up the discarded Prophet and lazily scanning the front page. Her mouth fell open. "Shh! Listen to this!

"Lucius Malfoy to Receive Dementor's Kiss August Twenty-First. Lucius Malfoy, renowned Death Eater and known supporter of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, was sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss yesterday, August first. Malfoy has been held in custody at Azkaban for the last two months and was finally given his day in court. The Wizengamot wasted very little time in making their decision. Malfoy will receive his punishment in less than three weeks.

"Narcissa Malfoy's trial took place one week prior to her husband's. Her punishment is not so severe. Mrs. Malfoy is required to wear a special bracelet for the course of two years to prevent her from using magic.

"Their son, Draco, has also been to trial. He was granted some leniency due to his age. Young Mr. Malfoy has been ordered to attend his final year at Hogwarts: School of Witchcraft and Wizardy, while being disallowed to leave the school grounds for the duration of the school year. He too will be required to wear a special bracelet, though he will be permitted to do strictly school-related magic, in classes only.

"The Malfoy family, in this reporter's mind, has not and cannot be punished enough."

There was a silence in the room as everyone took in the news. Hermione swallowed. There really wasn't very much reason for her to pity Lucius Malfoy, especially not after she had been tortured in his own house just a few months prior. And yet a small chunk of ice settled at the very bottom of her stomach.

"Maybe I don't want to go back to school after all," Ron said, leaning his head into one of his hands, his elbow propped up on the table. "Not if Malfoy's going to be there." He paused. "You reckon this means we'd have to share a dormitory with him?" This question was directed toward Harry, who shivered.

"Probably." Harry had a thoughtful expression on his face, despite the disgust he was emitting.

"Though," Ron continued, as if going into an epiphany, "might be nice to be around him if he's only allowed to use magic _in class_." He waved his hand as if performing hex. "Bang! Take that, Ferret!" He sniggered.

"Ron," Hermione reprimanded. She shook her head, returning her attention to Harry, trying to decipher his expression. He was avoiding her gaze, though. Instead, he had gone back to his abandoned cobbler. Ginny was looking at him too.

* * *

A.N.: Hello all! I am alive! No, really. I am. Okay, so it's been awhile. I know what you might be thinking: this sounds suspiciously like a Ron/Hermione. But I've been thinking, and I thought I'd try getting Ron out of the picture the old-fashioned way. (No quick expedients, like having him eaten by a raging Chimaera.) Draco will be making an appearance in the next chapter. Don't worry. I haven't changed ships on you.

See a large, blaring canon mistake? Please tell me. Much appreciated. I haven't reread Deathly Hallows, and my memory has its boundaries.

Oh, and I must warn that my updates will not be nearly as frequent as they were in the past. Once a week currently sounds nigh impossible.


	2. And On We Go

E & E—Chapter 2: And On We Go

By Marmalade Fever

"Up, up, up!" Mrs. Weasley called as she stuck her head in Ginny's bedroom. She and Hermione groggily looked up over their covers, yawned, and got out of bed. Once sufficiently dressed, they made their way downstairs to where a large breakfast of pancakes and eggs met them. A few minutes later, Harry and Ron showed up at the table as well, both sporting bad cases of bed head. Harry was sleepily trying to flatten his out with the palm of his hand.

"Here's some juice for the Head Girl," Mrs. Weasley cooed, setting a glass of grapefruit juice in front of Ginny. "And some for the Deputy Head Girl… and the Deputy Head Boy… and the Prefect."

Ron, for his part, looked skeptically down to where he'd already pinned on his badge. They'd all decided to simply apparate to Kings Cross, now that they all had their apparitions licenses, and so had decided to wear their school robes straight off, rather than changing. They had yet to decide whether or not Ron even had to perform his Prefect duties. Hermione had spouted out her theory that he would probably just be a Prefect in name and be able to deduct House Points and hand out detentions but wouldn't have to patrol the halls. Ron seemed content with this idea, mumbling something about how he was too old to go around chasing first years.

"So," Hermione said, for what must have been the millionth time over the last month, "where do you suppose our common room and dormitories will be? McGonagall said it was in a 'previously uninhabited part of the castle,' and I just can't think of anywhere that would work."

Harry looked up. "Maybe Myrtle's bathroom," he mumbled sleepily. "That's certainly uninhabited."

Hermione just rolled her eyes. "I wonder if we'll be allowed to visit Gryffindor Tower. I can't imagine any reason why not. And even if most of the other Eighth Years aren't allowed, I'm sure we all rank high enough. And Ginny will probably be allowed to visit us," she added hastily, as Ginny and Harry both gave her a look of sheer panic.

Ron stabbed an egg and chewed it, his eyelids still drooping. Mrs. Weasley came around behind him and started combing his hair, yanking his head up as he was trying to swallow. Once she'd finished with Ron, she moved onto Harry, not even bothering to ask permission. She was just working on a particularly bad rat's nest when George entered the room, dropping himself into a seat. He'd been unusually somber over the summer, though he was starting to crack small jokes again, though they generally tended to be a little lacking in the actual humor department. "That's an eggstremely good looking breakfast, Mum," he said. The others chortled, more for his benefit than from actual mirth. Truth be told, George was a bit of a downer. "Off to Hogwarts, you lot?" he asked. "You know, I didn't finish seventh year, and I turned out fine."

Mrs. Weasley yanked a little too hard on Harry's scalp than necessary. "Ouch!"

"Oh, sorry, dear," she said, turning disapproving eyes on George.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Weasley," Hermione said primly, "none of us has any intention to drop out. Isn't that right?" She got an unenthusiastic response from the others, but they nodded quickly when Molly turned her disapproving eyes on them instead. Hermione checked her watch and squeaked. "We need to get going!"

Harry, having disentangled himself from Mrs. Weasley's comb, drained his juice and stood. The others followed his example, and they all grabbed hold of their trunks, Crookshanks grumbling from within his cage.

"Arthur! They're leaving!" Mrs. Weasley called. Mr. Weasley emerged from the living room, a copy of that morning's Prophet in hand.

"You're sure you don't want us to see you off?" he asked. They shook their heads. They would only be on the platform for a minute before boarding. "All right, then." There was a series of hugs and kisses between them all, Percy even coming in from the garden to bid them goodbye. George bid them "an eary day," and then they were off.

Hermione didn't stumble when she arrived at the platform. She'd done enough apparating over the past year to become more than proficient at it. The others were already hurrying to board the train when Hermione stopped, a glint of silver catching her eye.

At the very end of the train platform, near the Prefects' car, two figures with blond hair were giving one another a hug. To be more accurate, the woman was giving the boy a fiercely desperate hug. It didn't take her long to recognize them as Narcissa and Draco Malfoy. He was looking a little uneasy with the attention his mother was giving him. He had just pulled away, preparing to leave, when she tugged on his wrist. She said something to him, still looking desperate, and he gave a reluctant nod. She smoothed one hand through his hair before bringing it back to her face to cover her eyes, and Hermione had an uneasy feeling that stoic Narcissa Malfoy had just burst into tears. Draco looked uneasily around him before dropping a quick kiss on his mother's forehead, sighing, and boarding the train. It was only at this very last second before he was out of sight that Hermione noticed the quick gleam of silver from his wrist again. Belatedly, she realized that it looked less like a bracelet and more like a manacle. Narcissa wore a matching one, though hers was much smaller, yet equally heavy-looking.

That chunk of ice had settled into Hermione's stomach once more. Mrs. Malfoy turned, and Hermione looked hastily away. She was very nearly sure that the elder woman had caught her watching the exchange. The train made an impatient rumbling sound, and Hermione hurried to get her trunk up and inside before she began searching out her friends. She just had time to stow her things before Ginny, Ron, and Harry tugged her off toward the Prefects' car.

Ginny scanned the over packed compartment for the telltale Head Boy badge. She finally found it pinned on the front of a sallow-looking Ravenclaw's robes, and the two of them brought the meeting to order.

In a normal year, there were twenty-four prefects, give or take two depending on whether the Heads had previously been Prefects or not. This year, there was an additional Ron, Hermione, Harry, Padma Patil, and Hannah Abbott. Malfoy was absent, and Hermione couldn't quite blame him for assuming that his Prefect duties had been revoked. Suffice it to say, the compartment resembled a can of sardines.

The Head Boy, who Hermione believed was called Wilkes, began explaining to the fifth year Prefects what their duties would be. After awhile, a sixth year Slytherin named Astoria Greengrass spoke up and asked the inevitable question of, "What exactly is up with these older people," she pointed first to Hannah and then to Ron, "being in here? And why do those two," she pointed to Hermione and Harry, "have those badges?"

"We've been invited back to finish up our schooling," Hermione explained, suddenly nervous as everyone's eyes fell on her. "We'll be separated from the rest of you, in our own common room." There was a slight murmur amongst the younger students. "Harry and I have been given the honorary title of Deputy Head Boy and Girl." Wilkes looked a little put out at this news. "But we'll mostly just be issuing detentions and awarding and revoking House Points," she finished.

"Interesting," Greengrass said, and she sat down.

Once the meeting was officially over, some of the Prefects went off to patrol the corridor, and Hermione, Ron, Harry, and Ginny left to find a compartment, something that was easier said than done. The train seemed to be over-capacity today. At last, they found a compartment with only Luna and Dean in it—luckily being the same compartment Hermione had stowed her trunk in—and they made themselves comfortable.

"So," Dean said, and Hermione couldn't help but notice the fact that he and Luna were holding hands, the girl looking dreamily down at her bunny-slipper-clad feet, "I've been trying to figure out just how many of us from our year are back. I haven't really seen anyone else yet. You?"

"Well, there was Padma Patil," Ron started. He mentioned her in a slight rush, and Hermione wondered if he really thought she might be jealous of a girl he had attended a dance with and subsequently ignored for the rest of the evening. "And Hannah Abbott."

"And Malfoy," Harry muttered, though he looked somewhat indifferent.

"And I'm guessing Parvati is around here somewhere," Hermione mused. Just as she finished speaking, there was a knock at the door, and Padma poked her head in. Of course, she and Parvati were identical, so it took a moment for them all to recognize her Prefects badge and blue tie before they could ascertain that she was not her sister.

"Do you mind?" she asked. She made her way in, closely followed by Hannah and another tiny girl sporting a yellow Hufflepuff tie. They squished themselves into the remaining seats. Padma sighed. "In case you were wondering, Parvati's not here."

"No?" Hermione asked. She had never been incredibly close to her old roommate, but it would have been nice to see her.

Padma puffed up her chest. "And you'll absolutely _never_ guess why! My dear sister has gotten married!" Everyone in the compartment froze, and Hermione could not quite stand the thought of looking over at Ron, as if some great disaster would occur if she did.

"But she's only eighteen," Ginny stated. She was no more close to Parvati than Hermione was to the Gryffindor girls that Ginny roomed with, so she seemed to be able to fight off the taboo of young marriage talk a little more easily than the others. It also helped that she was a little bit younger, so it didn't hit quite so close to home.

Padma shrugged, looking vexed. "You're telling me. She met some young Auror during the, er, final battle," she was avoiding looking at Harry now, "and I guess they hit it off. The two of them went off to live in the States together." She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I swear, sometimes I can't believe she and I have the same genes because I just don't understand what it is that goes through her head."

"She probably came down with a bad case of Twitterpatitis." This was from Luna, who was now resting her head on Dean's shoulder. He looked vaguely nervous.

Padma took a slow breath, as if trying to decide whether she dared ask her fellow Ravenclaw what she was on about now. "Which is?" she prompted at last.

"It's a disease of the stomach, causing butterfly-shaped bubbles to bounce around the cavity. It's generally caused by being bitten by the love worm, which will then burrow its way into the heart to lay its eggs." This statement was enough for Padma to shake her head and dismiss Luna's idea altogether.

The small Hufflepuff girl burst into laughter. "Twitterpatitis," she mumbled. "That's a good one, Looney."

Ginny opened her mouth as if she were about to defend Luna, but the blonde girl spoke up first. "You really should take out a subscription to the Quibbler, Lil'."

The Hufflepuff girl frowned, and Hannah was quick to pat her hand. "It's all right, August," she said. "It's not that bad of a nickname."

Now Ron frowned. "How do you get Lil out of August?"

"It's not _Lil_, Ronald. It's Lil'. She's little August Moon," Luna replied, her tone dreamy. "It's such a pretty name."

"So you can't blame me for resenting the little part," she said, rising to her feet. She was very short, Hermione mused. She looked as if she were only 4'10". "I know I'm short. I'd prefer not to be reminded of it, though."

Luna just shrugged her shoulders in that dreamy way she had.

The rest of the trip was comfortable, with Hermione getting to know her three new roommates and Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Dean getting into an intense Quidditch discussion. August had to interrupt and explain how she couldn't possibly understand how Ron could support the Cannons, and the only thing stopping a heated debate starting was the approach of the lunch trolley.

It was getting dark once the Hogwarts Express finally pulled into Hogsmeade Station.

The carriage ride was slow and bumpy, and all of them steadfastly ignored the sight of the Thestralls. Once in the castle, the five Gryffindors sat down at their table, and awaited the Sorting.

Hermione had really only glanced at the other tables to make sure she had identified all of her fellow Eighth years, but her eyes slowed down to a stop as her gaze fell on the Slytherin Table. It looked almost like a large Swiss cheese. So many students were missing, Hermione could hardly believe it. Malfoy sat at one end, absolutely alone. None of the other Slytherins were paying him any heed. And he really did just sit there, just looking up at the stage where the stool for the Sorting Hat stood. His expression would have been blank except for the slight furrow in his brow.

Hermione was interrupted from her perusal by the start of the Sorting ceremony, and she applauded each and every first year, secretly glad each time one of them filled up a hole at the Slytherin table.

After the feast, McGonagall stood and brought the room to attention. "I would like to welcome you all back to another year at Hogwarts," she began. "And I would also like to welcome our new Professors." She turned and indicated three new adults at the table. "Professor Candanver, Potions." A bald-headed man stood and nodded his head toward the students. "Professor Writzky, Muggle Studies." A woman with an overly large nose and cartilage piercings stood and waved. "And finally, Professor Amorell. She will be teaching a new class this year in place of Defense Against the Dark Arts." McGonagall looked around, as if daring anyone to make a scene. "Grief Counseling, House Unification, and Tolerance."

The young woman who stood had an angry pink scar running down the side of her face, but she smiled, waving briefly and sitting down in a flurry of cerulean robes.

Hermione's eyes glanced quickly to catch Malfoy's reaction to the new class, and he was glowering.

* * *

A.N.: I guess I finished this chapter faster than I thought I would. Feedback much appreciated! 


	3. Closed Quarters

E & E—Chapter 3—Closed Quarters

By Marmalade Fever

Draco's mother caught his wrist just as he was about to leave. He turned back to face her, feeling reluctant. This was not a situation he knew how to handle. Her eyes were full of tears, just beginning to brim over and run silent paths down her soft cheeks. "Draco," her voice was so choked with tears and desperation that he could only just hear her, "all I want, all I have ever wanted, is for you to be happy. As long as you're safe and happy, I'll be happy. So I want you to do something for me. Anything that you think will make you happy, don't be afraid to take it." He stared into her pale, bloodshot eyes for a moment, not entirely sure how to take this declaration, her fingers digging themselves into his wrist like a vice, so he just nodded. What else could he do when his mother was in such a state? The very barest hint of a smile tried to curl her mouth as she reached out one hand to smooth through his hair, the way she had when he had been very small and would fall asleep with his head in her lap. Her hand wavered, her muscles drained of their strength, and she moved to cover her eyes as a fresh onslaught of grief took over her. Panicked, Draco looked left and right before leaning down to kiss his mother's forehead, hoping against hope that this small gesture could bring her some comfort. Sighing, he boarded the train.

He wished bitterly that his father was not an empty vessel awaiting death.

* * *

Draco stared bitterly as McGonagall concluded her speech. _Be good, get along with others, __try__ to move on. Let's prevent another war, shall we?_ These weren't her exact words, but that was what he gathered from it. She had explained to the hall about the returning students. There were others from different years as well, though they weren't being segregated quite so much as he and the other "Eighth Years" were.

He was deliberately trying not to make eye-contact with the rest of Slytherin House. It was hard to say why exactly, but it felt as if talking to anyone, really, would mean admitting to something. What that something was… he wasn't entirely sure. But the further he kept from talking about this last year, the better. And talking to his Housemates seemed like the worst option, those who had known and looked up to him for something that no longer could stand for anything.

Actually, he felt as if he needed to reinvent himself. Alright, so that seemed a little too strong of a word. He felt as if he needed a new reason to be respected, something that no one, not Potter or the former Dark Lord, could take from him.

Reluctantly, he had realized over that dreadful summer that he had spent almost his entire school career hiding behind Crabbe and Goyle's bulky forms, his father's (arguably) good name, his own surname, his blood status, and his money. Take those away, and what respectful qualities were left him? His posture, his sharp wit, decent—though never good enough—Quidditch skills, an okay assortment of spell knowledge, and a rather nice head of hair.

That just wasn't enough to cut it.

Crabbe and his father were never coming back, anyway.

Just as everyone was rising from their seats to head, half-nodding, to bed, McGonagall made a final curt throat-clearing sound. "All Eighth Years, please report to me to be directed to your common room."

Draco glided silently down alongside the table and up to where McGonagall stood. There were eight of them, a rather ironic number considering they were the Eighth Years. There were even four boys and four girls. And half, he noted sourly, were Gryffindors.

How utterly disgusting.

Draco had developed a firm wish to never, ever have to talk to Harry Potter ever again. That didn't look entirely likely at this point. He had spent the better part of a month trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he had somehow been the owner of the best wand, the bloody Death Stick for crying out loud, without ever even _knowing_ it.

His current wand was okay and everything. But it would always be a disappointment in comparison.

"Follow me, please," McGonagall said, primly as ever. Draco trailed behind the slight crowd, just a few feet behind Dean Thomas.

A sudden urge to vomit overtook him as Weasley took up Granger's hand and gave it a cutesy squeeze. Well, it was about bloody time. It had been apparent to Draco that those two would become an item ever since Fourth Year, when Weasley had stopped mooning after and started growling towards Viktor Krum. Granger hadn't been any better in the sixth year, even if Draco's memories of the time were a little… preoccupied with other matters.

When McGonagall finally came to a halt, all Draco could do was stare, and he very nearly missed the password that she gave to the impressive new statue of Merlin: ginger newt.

Seriously? _Seriously?_

Off to the side, Harry Potter had just snorted with laughter, and the other two-thirds were having equal trouble holding in their laughter.

It was Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, only vastly remodeled. In place of where the toilets had been, there were now a row of comfortable, squashy chairs and a large sofa. To the right, where there had formerly been a wall-to-wall mirror and line of sinks for girls to primp themselves in front of, there was now a fireplace, the smoke magically redirected. But most interesting of all was next to the fireplace, where a broken sink had once been. There was now a spiral staircase, leading downwards.

"Below," McGonagall said, "the stairway leads off in two directions. To the right is the girls' dormitory, and the boys' to the left."

"Professor?" Granger, typically, had her hand raised.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

"Professor, may I ask what became of the Chamber?" Chamber? What was she on about now?

"It is still further below, though quite inaccessible. Your dormitories are newly added, in the manner of a basement or cellar." McGonagall sniffed.

"Hello, Draco." He very nearly jumped out of his skin as Moaning Myrtle floated right through him from behind, sending chills up and down his arms and neck. "Harry," she added, her tone scornful.

"Hello Myrtle," Potter said, suddenly tense. His eyes drifted to Draco for a moment, perhaps remembering the last time the three of them had been in this room together. It wasn't exactly a pleasant memory for Draco, either.

"Myrtle," McGonagall said, as if choosing her words very carefully, "I do appreciate your volunteering to become a House Ghost, of sorts, but it's truly not necessary. And I do apologize for any inconvenience made towards you."

"Inconvenience?" Myrtle's eyes narrowed. "Inconvenience!" She swooped quickly around the room. "You lost me my U-Bend!" she all-but-screeched.

"Now, Myrtle," McGonagall stressed, now adopting her detention tone, "there are many other facilities in the castle that you may haunt! But I must ask you to abandon this one."

Myrtle puffed up. "But this is where I _died_," she stressed. "You insensitive living, always thinking of yourselves just because you're still alive! Just you wait until you're the one that's dead. Then you'll wish someone would give you a U-Bend to haunt." Still wailing, Myrtle disappeared up the chimney.

McGonagall took a deep breath before looking back to the students. "You are all responsible young adults. I expect you to act like it." She looked deliberately in his direction. She paused then, as if weighing her options. "Also, I am sorry to inform you all that the School Board has decided that all Eighth Years are ineligible for positions on your House Quidditch Teams this year, due to the unfairness of your advanced ages."

Across the room, Weasley's eyes very nearly popped right out of his head. Draco would have laughed, except he felt the bracelet… manacle… whatever, shift on his wrist. He'd rather not be murdered in his bed without means of immediate retaliation.

"Are there any questions?" McGonagall asked, sweeping her spectacled gaze around the room.

Granger, unsurprisingly, raised her hand all the way into the air, her sleeve falling down to reveal her long, pale arm. "Will we be allowed to visit our House Commons?"

McGonagall seemed to consider this. "Yes," she said finally, "however, I would like to discourage you all from spending the majority of your time there. Much time and effort have been put into crafting this Common Room for you—" Draco did snort now, it was a girls' toilet, after all, "—and I would hate to have that go to waste."

Granger raised her hand again, but McGonagall nodded for her to continue before she'd gotten it halfway into the air. "May we have guests here?"

"I am afraid not, for the sole reason of password privacy. Now, unless there is anything else, I have much to do before classes begin in the morning." She bade them goodnight and left.

With eerie synchronization, everyone's heads swiveled toward Draco. "What?" he asked, crossing his arms so that the manacle was slightly hidden from view.

"This is going to be a long year," Potter said at last, and he left it at that.

One by one, they all began investigating their new living space. There were two portraits on the walls. One was of a dozing man with a night cap that had fallen onto his knee. The other was an imp, who was grinning at them all, baring his four rows of impressively sharp teeth. "I don't think I'm going to like him very much," Hannah Abbott observed.

"Oh!" This was from Granger. "I thought of another question I wanted to ask her." She sighed, shaking her brown frizz from her face. "I'm going to look into the dormitories." With that, she flitted down the spiral staircase.

Draco stayed in the Common Room only long enough to make a general critique of the room. Despite the modifications, it was still a bathroom, and that was insulting to the very name of Malfoy.

With that, he followed Granger's example and went down the flight of stairs, watching over his shoulder to make sure none of the male Gryffindors decided to express their enmity with a good jelly-legs curse.

At the bottom of the spiral, sure enough, were two doors.

Being an adolescent boy, Draco briefly wondered if there were any sort of spell attached to the door to the right. There was no staircase to turn into a slide here, as there was in the Slytherin Girls' Dormitories. McGonagall wasn't exactly stupid, though. He was sure that she had set up some sort of precautions to prevent his entry into the girls' room. Then again, what did he care?

There were four girls who would be living in this room. Two were Hufflepuffs. He had standards that rose higher than that. Patil was a Ravenclaw, and he didn't have any specific qualms against that house. But he had never found himself especially attracted to either of the Patil twins, despite their obvious beauty. There was something in the way they held themselves. While Padma was a little better than her simpering, Trelawney-obsessed sister, she still had this annoying quality about her that he couldn't really name. And finally, there was Granger, the one currently occupying the room. There were too many things wrong with her for him to name: her blood status being only one of them and the fact that she'd been tortured in his home by his aunt only a few months prior was only another.

The door to the left opened easily and he found a much more suitable room waiting for him than the Common Room had implied. There were four decent-sized four posters, all in neutral white linens and wood tones. His trunk sat next to the bed just to the left of the door to their bathroom. There were two bewitched windows, now displaying the night sky over the grounds toward the Forbidden Forest.

If he sat on his bed with the curtains drawn, he just might be able to ignore his new roommates.

He certainly hoped so, anyway.

Draco pretended to sleep, and he listened while Thomas, Weasley, and Potter exchanged anecdotes about their summers. Weasley kept talking about Granger… a lot.

"Do you think Hermione would like to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?" he was asking.

"I dunno, Ron," Potter said. "It's the first week of school. She'll want to study."

Weasley snorted. "Yeah, you're probably right. You lot want to go flying instead? I can't believe what McGonagall said about Quidditch!"

Potter sighed. "Yeah, we can play a match with just the three of us. Maybe Ginny, too. I did buy that set of balls over the summer, and I'd really like to test out my new Skybeam somewhere other than the orchard."

Skybeam? Skybeam Millenium? "Did you just say what I think you said, Potter?"

Though Draco couldn't see it, the others jumped. "What's it to you?" Weasley asked.

Draco groaned. "In case you've forgotten, Weasel-brain, I happen to like Quidditch. Did you say you got a Skybeam, Potter?"

"Yeah, Ferret, I did." They were quiet for a moment.

"Interesting." That was really the only safe comment he could come up with without exposing his enthusiasm.

"That's a funny word," Thomas said, between a yawn. "Interesting is kind of neutral. Could be good or bad."

"I'm aware of the fact."

Weasley groaned. "Why on Earth are we talking to the Ferret? _Silencio._"

Draco opened and closed his mouth and no sound came out. The audacity!

"Ron," Potter said, halfway between a reprimand and a chuckle.

Draco drew back his curtains and showed off his middle finger for Weasley. Instead of inciting the intended anger, the others burst into laughter.

"Alright, alright. Ron, reverse the spell and we'll all just go to bed, shall we?" Potter was still having trouble maintaining a straight face.

"Okay. But I'm warning you, Malfoy. I know where you sleep." Ha ha, very clever. "_Finite __incantatum._"

"For once I'm glad Potter can pull rank on you," Draco grumbled before closing his curtains again. He slept with one eye open. This was going to be one long year.

* * *

A.N.: They should actually be starting classes in the next chapter. Things should get a bit more interesting (there's that word!) once they get into the swing of things. Thank you to all who have read and reviewed so far! 


	4. Amoral Amorell

8 & 8th—Chapter 4—Amoral Amorell

By Marmalade Fever

Directly after lunch, Hermione found herself in the former Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, staring swiftly around at the seven other students. It seemed as if this class, Grief Counseling, House Unification, and Tolerance—she was sure it needed a nickname of some sort—was to be the only one that all the Eighth Years would have together and without the presence of any of the true Seventh Years. It was rather odd. Her Arithmancy class didn't have very many students either, but this seemed like a ridiculously small class size.

Before she could really get into the semantics of the significance of their having this particular class together, Professor Amorell stepped into the room.

"Good afternoon, everyone," she said, setting her satchel down and promptly sitting on the edge of her desk. She was barefoot. That seemed rather odd as well. She smiled cheerily at them, her scar creasing. "To start, I'd just like to make a clarification. You'll all be signing up for a grief counseling session with me—outside of class. If I feel it's needed, there may be follow-up sessions." Her eyes flitted briefly to Harry's. He grimaced.

"Now," she continued, "the object of this class is pretty clear from its course title." She waved her wand and the tediously long name appeared on the chalkboard. "If I'm not mistaken, it should generally be a lot of fun, though you might not always think so." Amorell laughed, though Hermione wasn't entirely sure why. A feeling of absolute foreboding stole over her.

"We have been very fortunate, it seems. It was my request to take you all, you Eighth Years, you, alone. Since there's an even number of you, we have an excellent opportunity to divide you up into pairs." She smiled broadly.

"So here's what we're going to do. I want each of you to find someone of the opposite gender who is not, I repeat, _not_ of your house. This person will be your partner for most activities throughout the year."

Hermione had the grave misfortune of having a brain that worked quickly, and it was at this point that she panicked completely. Her eyes swept over the room in desperation, but there was really no hope for it. Harry had just paired up with Hannah. Ron seemed torn between August and Padma—either the girl who didn't like the Cannons or the one who was still slightly bitter over their date in the Fourth Year. Dean was looking indecisive as well.

Finally, she looked at Malfoy. He was trying, rather unsuccessfully, to catch Padma's gaze. Ignoring him, Padma sped toward Dean, who smiled, looking relieved with his choice of partners.

Catching on, Ron grudgingly walked over to August, who was wearing a Holy-Head Harpies pin.

And that was that.

He was the only boy in their class who was not a Gryffindor, which meant he had to be her partner by default. Hermione strode cautiously toward him. She could do this, she told herself. She was the diplomatic one. She was the one who was so keen on Inter-House Unity.

But it was bloody Malfoy, she pouted.

He frowned as she approached him. "What, _you?_" he asked.

"Yes, me." She crossed her arms over her chest and faced the front.

"Bloody unbelievable," he muttered under his breath. He had his wand out, she noted. She was guessing that he was currently reveling in being able to use it now that they were in class. And by the expression on his face, she could tell that he'd realized their forced partnership as well.

"All paired?" Amorell asked, her voice much too cheerful, considering the situation. "Today's will be a lesson in trust. And I do apologize if this seems at all cheesy or cliché, but I'm going to have each of you do something that you might not be very keen on doing." Hermione was growing more and more nervous by the minute. Malfoy didn't look especially ecstatic, either. "I want all of the girls to line up at my desk. Boys, you will be catching your partners as they fall off the desk backwards."

Hermione's eyes grew as round as dinner plates, if not larger. Her entire body had gone as tense as a loaded spring. Slowly, Malfoy turned to face her. "This should be interesting," he said, sounding like a cat preparing to eat a very large mouse.

"And then, of course, girls, you'll be catching the boys… assuming they aren't too heavy for you," Amorell added. "Maybe I'll lower the desk a bit."

"I won't drop you if you don't drop me," Hermione said, her voice thick with panic as Malfoy's smirk grew.

"Drop you? Why, I'd never dream of it." He sniggered.

Reluctantly, Hermione took her place at the end of the short queue. August was already on top of the desk, Ron standing with his arms out to catch her. Despite her apprehension, Hermione had to smile at the oddity of the sight. Ron was nearly a foot and a half taller than August. Catching her would be easy for him. The opposite—August catching Ron—would be impossible, unless she used a cushioning charm.

"Now, you're sure you'll catch me?" August was asking.

"Yes," Ron said.

"You're sure?"

"Yes," he grunted.

"Do you have your arms up?"

"Yes." Ron was starting to look beyond peeved by now.

August took a breath. "Okay." And she fell down off the desk, Ron catching her easily. She clutched onto his arm for a moment, looking terrified while Ron laughed and set her on her feet.

Padma was next, and Dean fumbled with her, causing the girl to grumble a bit before she stalked off to sit at a desk. Harry caught Hannah as if she were nothing more than an over-large Quaffle. Finally, it was Hermione's turn.

On shaking legs, she got first up on the chair and then onto the desk, and then… she refused to turn around. "Don't worry," Ron called out, "we'll make sure he catches you." He emphasized this by smacking his wand against the palm of his hand. Purple sparks shot out, and he shook his singed hand, grimacing.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Get on with it, Granger," he said, tapping his fingers against his bicep.

"Uncross your arms, first," she barked. "And I'm warning you, I won't hesitate to dock House Points if I must." She was having a flashback to her days of swimming lessons. She had always hated jumping into the deep end, and she had always just stood there, frozen, until she'd finally convince herself to jump. This time, it looked and felt as if she were blindly jumping into the open jaws of a shark.

He held his arms up, still looking horribly bored. Reluctantly, she turned around. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, she chanted. And then she just allowed herself to fall.

She had just enough time to feel the soles of her shoes scrape against the edge of the desk before she felt two strong arms wrap themselves around her. One was at the back of her thighs, the other around her shoulders.

Too soon—and why that thought came to her, she had no idea—he had set her on her feet and was dusting his hands and robes off.

"Merlin, Granger, what do you eat? Feathers? It's like I could throw you through a Quidditch hoop without even trying." Hermione scowled, though she thought it rather sounded like a veiled compliment.

Amorell started clapping. "Minor change of plans. I don't think it would be especially safe if Miss Moon tried to catch Mr. Weasley, so I've come up with a different trust game for you all." Hermione groaned. She had a feeling she wasn't going to be enjoying this class _at all_. "So here's the plan: I'm going to be casting a very temporary blinding spell on you boys. Girls, you'll be leading them around the classroom, maybe even the castle if you'd like. Just be sure to be back ten minutes before the end of class so that I can announce your homework and remove the blinding spell."

When Malfoy turned his eyes on Hermione this time, he was the one who looked frightened. Hermione smirked evilly. "Scared, are you?"

* * *

Draco stared as Granger's look of annoyance turned to a smirk to rival any of his own.

Professor Amorell's name reminded him distinctly of three things. The first was rather silly: a morel mushroom. He was fond of them, browned and served in a cream sauce over pasta. The second was what came to his mind at this moment, watching Granger's smirk growing larger and larger by the nanosecond. Amoral. The woman was definitely amoral if she were forcing them to do _bonding_ games like this. The third? Amore. Of which, he was feeling very little from the cheery professor, nor Granger, for that matter.

"Come along, Malfoy," she said.

"I think you might understand my hesitation, Granger," he said, frowning. He wasn't about to budge from his spot until she wiped that horrifying smirk off her face.

But Amorell had her own ideas. "Mr. Malfoy and Miss Granger, I presume?" she asked. She had a roll sheet with little photographs of each of them pasted next to their names. Draco was pleased to note that his image had an aristocratic expression on its face, left eyebrow raised partially. Most people were only able to raise one eyebrow. Draco could raise either, though the right rose up higher than the left. But after much contemplation in front of mirrors over the years, he had decided that he preferred the more subtle rise of his left brow than the more blatant rise of his right. The left signified power. The right signified disbelief and mockery.

"Yes, that's right," Granger answered for the both of them, oblivious to Draco's contemplation of the connotative psychology of eyebrow raisings.

"Ah, yes," Amorell said, nodding her head and drawing checkmarks beside each of their names. "And I see here, Miss Granger, that's you're a muggleborn. Is that correct?"

Granger's own eyebrows drew together, not out of puzzlement but out of wariness, he decided. "Yes," she said slowly, as if testing the waters with the new teacher.

"Interesting." There was that word that Thomas seemed so worked up about. "I'll be very pleased to see how your partnership develops."

"About that…" Granger began.

"It's teams like this that are really at the heart of this class's core concern," Amorell continued, as if she had not heard the younger girl. "Inter-house unity and tolerance," she stressed. "It's my hope, and that of the School Governors, that we may be able to prevent any future wars by stifling all of this pointless bunk about superiority due to blood purity and, though never really the Hogwarts Founders' intention, House rivalry based—in the most loose of origins—on simple character traits." Dear Merlin, the woman was smiling again. "And so you can't begin to realize just how pleased I really am with how the two of you have been partnered. The deepest contention lies between the Muggleborns and the Purebloods and the Gryffindors and the Slytherins. And you both played such opposing roles during the course of the War." And then what was truly a frightening grin took over the woman's face, wrinkling her scar horribly. "And of course, another part of tolerance lies in breaking down the walls of sexism, which is why I've paired everyone off boy-girl."

With that, the woman turned on Draco, muttered the blinding spell, and everything went thoroughly dark.

For a long moment, absolutely nothing happened. Draco just stood there, waiting for what was bound to be one of the worst (and embarrassing) non-War-related experiences of his lifetime. After a moment, he found himself concentrating on Granger's breathing pattern.

"Well?" he asked at last.

"Quiet, I'm thinking," she said, a frown in her tone.

"Newsflash, Granger. You're always thinking." Despite his worries, he knew that of the three Gryffindor hellions, she would be the least likely to do anything unnecessarily childish or scornful.

And then he felt his sleeve being tugged upon. "I was thinking of how best to go about this without actually being forced to touch you," she confessed.

"You don't want to hold hands? I'm hurt, truly I am."

"Lies don't become you, Malfoy," she replied rather snippily. She had begun leading him off in what he was pretty sure was the direction of the classroom door. There was a change in the air as they stepped into the hallway, and Granger began leading him to the right.

Draco tried to concentrate on where they were, or, at least, where he assumed they were. If he was correct, they weren't very far from a flight of stairs, and he automatically slowed down his steps until Granger was practically struggling to get him to follow her. "What?" she asked.

"You weren't going to warn me, were you?" he asked. He would have crossed his arms if he didn't currently have a parasite on one of them.

"Warn you about what?"

"The stairs, Granger. I'm not stupid, you know. I'm not about to let you topple me down them."

To his surprise, she laughed. "Malfoy, you _are_ stupid. We've got another fifteen feet or so."

He glared sternly at her, though truthfully, he wasn't entirely sure where her head was located. He might have been glaring sternly two feet off his mark. "And why should I believe that?"

She groaned. "Well, for one thing, I'd have to go down the stairs first, wouldn't I? I think you might feel it." She bounced his arm around inside of the sleeve. "But if you're scared, I'll turn around, and we'll head the other direction." He heard the scraping sound of her footfalls, and the tug at his sleeve, but he wouldn't move.

"I'm not scared," he growled. "There's nothing wrong with self-preservation in the face of Gryffindor trickery."

She snorted lightly. "You make it sound like I'm Peeves. I suggest you start putting a little of that trust that this exercise is supposed to generate into your actions."

He laughed. "And is that what you were doing when you threatened to dock House Points from me a moment ago?"

"Touché." She tugged on his sleeve again, and he begrudgingly let her turn them in the opposite direction. Being led about blindly was a truly disorienting experience. Half the time, he was certain she was about to tug him straight into a wall or out the window.

They had just gone around a corner—he assumed it was a corner—when she came to an abrupt stop and he stumbled into her back. His nose poked right into the back of her head for a moment and he wiped furiously at his face, trying to get any hairs off of him.

And then, she grabbed hold of his actual wrist and tugged him in the opposite direction, moving surprisingly quickly. "What's wrong?" he gabbled as he began to stumble up some stairs. His shins were being banged up, so she had better have a good explanation.

"Trelawney," she hissed.

Draco had never taken Divination. He'd known well enough not to bother. But it surprised him that the Teacher's Pet would have such a negative reaction to the bug-eyed professor.

It wasn't a good enough explanation. He came to an abrupt halt and immediately wished he hadn't. Granger rebounded as she pulled on his arm and fell back, knocking them both down the stairs again and into a heap on the floor. Her elbow was pushed into his spleen, and he had yet another face full of honey-scented hair.

"Ow," he moaned as she scrambled to her feet. There was a sound of more feet shuffling down the corridor.

"Oh, it's you, Miss Granger," an airy voice said, a hint of derision in the tone. "What are you doing out of class?"

Granger's tone was haughty. "You mean you don't know? And here I thought you could _foresee._"

A.N.: There, some Draco/Hermione interaction at last! Next update will probably be in April. RL is calling for awhile. Speaking of:

If you ever meet me in real life (doubtful) ask me to do the eyebrow wave.


	5. Unlikely Prophecy

8 & 8th—Chapter 5—Unlikely Prophecy

By Marmalade Fever

Hermione grabbed Draco by the hand and kissed him, and they professed their undying love for one another, had six children all named Darryl (except for Larry,) and they all lived happily ever after. The End. Er, APRIL FOOLS!

* * *

Draco had a vivid mental picture of Professor Sybil Trelawney staring up at Granger through her thick glasses, her eyes magnified to twice their normal size, at least. "Clearly, you do not understand the delicate balance a Seer must employ in choosing which prophecies to keep in the foreground of the mind and which to send to the back."

"Oh, so you forgot. I _see_," Granger replied snidely. For some reason, Draco had always imagined that the Gryffindor girl was only ever impolite to Slytherins and acidic Daily Prophet reporters. It appeared he was wrong.

"No, my dear girl, the problem is that you cannot see," the woman corrected, sniffing. "And I did not forget. It is merely a matter of choosing which prophecies are best to, shall we say, allow others to realize I have made? I find that the blind, such as yourself, are often unresponsive to having their lives predetermined, and so I choose not to alarm them by knowing too much, too soon."

"So you were shielding me by pretending that you didn't know why I was here?" Granger translated.

"It is far more complicated than that, but in a nutshell, yes."

"So then you should have no reason to be concerned with our being out of class."

"Our?" Trelawney questioned. "Oh." It appeared Draco had been noticed at last. He was still rubbing the back of his head, seeing stars despite his blindness.

"Do you mean to say that you pushed his presence to the back of your mind as well?" Granger queried.

"The Eye sees as the Eye sees," Trelawney said loftily.

Granger was silent for a moment, but from a certain dull thudding sound near his right ear, he had a feeling she was tapping her foot. "Well, I think you should prove it," she said at last.

"Prove?" Trelawney asked.

Draco grunted, sitting up slowly and rubbing at his head. This whole blind thing was starting to get a bit old.

"Make a prediction," Granger elaborated, "and we'll see if it comes true." Was it his imagination, or did Granger sound just a trifle evil?

Trelawney stuttered at first before she inhaled deeply. "If you insist," she said. Her voice took on a dreamy quality that sounded more showy than anything else. "Before this year ends," the woman said, very slowly, "you and Mr. Malfoy here will discover what the heart seeks but the mind avoids."

Draco's head had whipped in the direction of Trelawney's voice as soon as his name had been mentioned. "What in the name of Merlin is _that_ supposed to mean?" he asked, half-yelling.

He heard another sniff from Trelawney's direction. "It means, Mr. Malfoy, that you and Miss Granger will be falling in love, whether you like it or not."

Draco's cheeks briefly puffed up with air before he burst into all-out laughter. "What! You really are a fraud!" From above him, Granger had started laughing too.

"That's… that's… couldn't you have come up with something a little more believable?" she asked between gasps for air.

"I am not _coming up _with anything, Miss Granger!" Trelawney insisted. "You, dear girl, are completely blind to the Inner Eye, and your mind is already avoiding the inevitable. Besides, what other prophecy would have been able to convince you, hmm? Had I predicted that you would receive an O on your Potions Essay, which you will, you would have attributed it to coincidence, would you not?"

Granger snorted. "I suppose that's true enough." There was a brief pause. "Oh, no! Come on, Malfoy, we've got to get back to class." To his great surprise, she actually grabbed his hand and helped pull him to his feet before she latched onto his sleeve again and pulled him up the stairs, this time at a much more acceptable pace.

"Well, that was interesting," he drawled, as they turned a corner and set out at a brisk rate along an expanse of flat hallway. Interesting, why did he keep using that word? It was a safe word, he decided. It could be interpreted in multiple ways. "I had no idea you had such a strained relationship with her. Here I was under the impression that you licked the shoes of schoolmarms everywhere."

"Newsflash, Malfoy," she said, echoing his words from earlier, "I only respect those who deserve it."

"Ah, and how did that almighty Seer lose your respect, hmm?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," she grumbled. "Though you may be interested in knowing that she was one of the stress factors that helped build up to that slap I gave you third year."

"And here's another newsflash for you. If you want to pass this class, you might want to rethink reminding me of reasons to hate you." He sneered.

"Did a poor, defenseless girl hurt you, Malfoy?" she asked.

"Defenseless, my foot," he muttered. He stopped in his tracks, being careful not to pull so hard that she smacked into him this time. "One more thing before we get back," he said slowly. He bared his teeth slightly. "If you ever make mention of what that bat just prophesied, I will find a way to get back at you so badly you'll wish you'd never gotten your Hogwarts letter in the first place."

She sniffed. "Like I'd want to tell anyone that Trelawney thinks we're going to fall in love. I don't think you'll have to worry about that much. I have a reputation to maintain too, you know." She tugged on his sleeve, and just moments later he made out the sounds of other Eighth Year voices.

"Here you are, _finite incantatum_," Amorell said, and Draco blinked in the light, relief washing over him. He yanked his sleeve out of Granger's grip, his manacle flopping about as he did so.

"Now," Amorell continued, "everyone, here's a sign-up sheet for grief counseling. There are a lot of spots filled up already from the other years I've already taught this morning, just to warn you. Also, I want you all to read the introduction and chapters one and two of _Grieving for the Soul_. Everyone got that? Good." The woman nodded and set the sign-up sheet on her desk. Draco groaned. Grief counseling? With this woman? That would be a barrel of fun….

Granger pushed past him on her way up to the desk, and he frowned. What on earth was that Divination teacher thinking? He and Granger? In love? That was the most farfetched, ludicrous, all-out stupid idea he had ever heard.

Granger bent down over the desk to scrawl her signature on the paper, her wild hair falling down over her shoulders, a tiny piece of peach neck peeking out from over her collar. Draco bit his lip before moving to get in the queue as well. By the time he'd made it to the front, it looked as if almost all of the spots towards the end of the sign-up period were taken already. Granger, dutifully it seemed, had chosen a time during this week. Draco chose a date at random: September 19th.

* * *

Potions class was exceedingly different from either Snape's or Slughorn's approaches. Professor Candanver—who, Draco noted, needed only to take the N's out of him name to spell Cadaver—was an extremely lazy sort of fellow. His exact instructions to them were, "Just find something in your textbooks and keep busy. Make any trouble and it's detention for the lot of you. I'm taking a nap." With that, he set his balding head on his arms and started snoring within five minutes.

Potter and the Weasley girl were talking in hushed voices in the back. She'd just whispered something that had made The Boy Who Got Too Much Glory blush. Granger and the Weasel 

were slightly better. She refused to relax during class time and was furiously brewing what looked to be the very last potion in the entire book, which, luckily, only took one hour and forty-three point six seconds. It was the point six that amused Draco, as he flipped boredly through his text book.

The three other Slytherins in the class were mostly unknown entities to him. There was a girl named Una Maroo, who had blonde hair down to her mid-thigh, horrible bangs, and an overbite. There was a boy named Gavin Woolsey and his twin sister, Margaret. The two of them kept almost entirely to themselves. In fact, he wasn't sure he'd ever seen them apart other than in the boys' dormitory and bathroom, now that he thought of it. They were a very affectionate brother and sister. He kept squeezing her hand every other minute, and there was something in the way she passed him the frogspawn that made Draco want to retch into his cauldron.

As the minutes ticked by and he got more and more bored, he actually started a potion, just to give himself something to do. It was an agility potion, supposedly good for mixing into broom polish. He might as well get something useful out of being stuck in here.

"Ron!" Draco's head whipped around to where his supposed future love had her eyes very wide and her wooden spoon half-raised, dripping chunky apricot fluid back into the cauldron. She lowered her voice. "Not while I'm brewing! And _certainly_ not in class!"

Weasley frowned. "Sorry," he mumbled. "It was just a peck on the cheek. Don't have kittens." The red-head turned. "What're you looking at, Malfoy?"

"Nothing much, apparently," he spat back. "Oh, and Granger, your potion's turning _sulfur_. You might want to take care of that." He pinched his nose for effect. Granger immediately shrieked and threw in two bay leaves, stirring furiously.

Up front, Candanver grumbled something in his sleep that sounded suspiciously like, "Dirty, rotten ragamuffins."

As Draco turned back to his own potion, still hearing Granger hissing and chopping up ingredients, an idea occurred to him, a potentially impossible idea.

There was one way that he could win himself some respect based entirely on his own efforts, and because it was still the first day of school, it wasn't too late to begin.

Draco was going to try to out-do Granger.

He had the smarts, though he didn't always bother to put them to use. It would mean hours upon hours of studying, but it wasn't as if he were about to spend much of his time socially this coming year anyway. He would need something to keep him occupied.

If he could just manage to do at least as well or better than the Gryffindor Bookworm on the NEWTs, then he'd have something to prove his merit once and for all.

As Candanver finally got up to inspect the class, he awarded five points to Slytherin for Draco's agility potion and six to Gryffindor for Granger's agoraphobia potion.

It seemed he was on his way to success. Or disaster.

* * *

At dinner, Hermione ate quietly, looking out over the mass of students. It sent a chill up her spine to see so many empty spaces among the tables. Several students had died during the battle or had moved to safety with their families.

Neville, Lavender, Seamus, and various others from her year had already left school after attending the previous year, though she couldn't imagine that they had gotten a very decent education.

A few others, mainly Slytherins, were now in Azkaban, Pansy Parkinson included. Even she had trouble smiling when The Prophet had informed of that. She may have never gotten along with Pansy, but she was still only a girl.

The House Elves had made a special dinner—fondue. It was messy, and Ron had cheese all up and down his robes.

She handed him a napkin, and he grunted his thanks between bites.

At the next table over, August stuck her tongue out and shivered, and Hermione nodded her agreement.

Hermione's eyes strayed to the Slytherin table, where Malfoy was eating his fondue with a knife and fork. Between him and Ron, she wasn't sure which one looked more ridiculous.

"So," Harry said, across the table, "you'll never guess what McGonagall told me after Transfiguration."

Hermione looked up at him. "What?"

"Well, first off, it sounds as if the Grief Counseling, et cetera class is only temporary. The School Board ordered it for this year. They might have kept on Defense Against the Dark Arts, except that there's a major shortage of people willing to take on the jinxed position. Anyway, McGonagall wanted to know if I'd like to," he snorted, "be the new teacher next year."

Hermione's mouth dropped open. "Oh, Harry! That's wonderful!"

"Wow, 'arry, 'at's 'reat!" Ron said between bites.

Harry frowned. "It might be fun, I suppose. Kind of like the D.A. again, but… you know how nervous I get in front of people."

Ginny opened her mouth and promptly closed it again, looking thoughtful. Her eyes strayed up to the staff table. "Have you ever noticed," she mumbled, "that none of the staff are married?" Her cheeks turned pink.

Harry froze and tugged at his collar. "And that's a good point, too. I don't think I'd be able to visit you all very much, except on weekends and during the holidays."

"Well, I'm sure you could work something out," Hermione said. She wasn't about to let him turn down the chance at being a Professor!

"Well," Ron said, after he'd swallowed, "McGonagall did say she'd be looking for someone to take over Transfiguration for her next year. How's your ability to turn a mouse into a cabbage, Gin?"

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Better than yours but probably not quite up to par." She rubbed her thumb over her Head Girl badge. "How I got this is beyond me. Speaking of which, I need to go discuss something with Woozy Wilkes. See you all later!"

Hermione grabbed herself a chunk of bread and speared it before twirling it in the cheese mixture.

There was a small part of her that was jealous of Harry.

* * *

A.N.: Sorry about the wait, everyone! I think I just borrowed an old plot idea from one of my really old fan fics, in which Harry becomes the DADA professor and Hermione becomes the Transfiguration professor. Hopefully this chapter helped clear up some of the very valid questions I got in reviews. Feedback appreciated, as always!


	6. His Lovely Head of Hair

8 & 8th—Chapter 6—His Lovely Head of Hair

By Marmalade Fever

Draco made his way into the loo adjoining his shared dormitory, still groggy from a restless night's sleep. Every time he'd thought he was about to drift off, he had heard one of the other beds creak. Although he, Weasley, and Potter had not interacted as much as might have been possible the day before, he wouldn't put it past one of them—namely the Weasel—to decide to enact some sort of revenge while he slept. He was the last one to rise, and the others had already left for breakfast.

He took his shower, cringing at the brown and curly, black and wily, and red and garish hairs that were littered about the drain. Weren't the House Elves supposed to clean up around here? He actually cast a cleaning spell on the bottoms of his feet as he'd gotten out.

After he'd gotten himself dressed, he towel-dried his hair, combed it, and then opened up the cabinet above the sink. His hand hovered over the objects there-in for a long moment, his eyebrows knitting together.

Of all the low-down, idiotic things to do. That vile Weasel had confiscated his hair gel.

His lovely head of hair would simply have to have to go au naturale. He carefully dried it a little more thoroughly and combed it into something a little less straight back, grumbled, and set off for the Great Hall.

* * *

Hermione had just raised her glass of pumpkin juice to her lips when Ron burst into sudden hysterical laughter, and she ended up swallowing wrong and coughing uselessly, the acidity in the juice not helping matters as her eyes watered. He instantly stopped laughing and patted her on the back. "You okay?" he asked. She nodded, though she could still feel the lingering scratchiness at the back of her throat.

"What was so funny?" Harry asked, pouring a goblet of water and setting it before Hermione.

Ron sniggered, his hand stopping its patting motion. He raised it, turning it this way and that like a magician before a magic trick, and then he reached into his pocket to reveal a clear plastic tube. "Nicked this from the cabinet above the sink this morning," he explained. He tossed it across the table to Harry, who caught it effortlessly.

"Hair gel?" he asked.

"Hair gel," Ron agreed. "From that posh place on Diagon Alley, too. Thing probably cost the git a galleon or so."

Harry leaned over to try to contain his laughter. "You stole Malfoy's _hair gel_?" He turned and surreptitiously stole a glance at the Slytherin table, Ron and Hermione's eyes following his lead.

Sure enough, Malfoy was seated two spaces down from the younger Greengrass, his hair drying into its natural state. It made him look different, Hermione realized. She equated it to the times she had seen Harry without his glasses. It was as if she were seeing a whole different person, Malfoy's brother perhaps. Without his hair slicked back in severely straight strands, his chin actually looked a little less pointed, as if his hair had been accentuating it all of these years.

She gulped ever-so-slightly. He looked… nice. There was a very soft curl to his hair that twisted gently around his ears and at the nape of his neck.

"Git looks like he's been dragged down a level, doesn't he?" Ron asked, grinning. "Knock that prince down to pauper one step at a time."

Harry snorted and then bent to read the tube of gel a little more closely. "If my aunt Petunia had known this existed, I bet she'd have slathered the whole thing over my head." He patted down his unruly bangs that only partially hid his scar.

"Well, I'm not about to give it back to him. Why not give it a try?" Ron suggested, turning back to his porridge.

Harry frowned. "Nah. That's all right." He scooted the tube back over to Ron. "I think I'd rather stay out of this. Speaking of which, clean my fingerprints off of it, would you?"

Ron looked puzzled. "Fingerprints?"

Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation. "I'll explain it later. For now, though, I think you should hand that gel over to me."

"Why?"

"Because," she said, sitting up straight and adopting her best lecture voice, "I think you're being a right git. Malfoy's hardly provoked you, and he's vulnerable right now."

Ron snorted. "Vulnerable? Hermione, it's just hair gel. It's not exactly going to hurt him to go without it for awhile."

"And how would you feel, Ron, if your father had just been sentenced to the Kiss, you could only use your magic in-class, you didn't have any friends, and then someone turns around and steals your hair products?"

"He's got friends!"

Hermione looked at him skeptically. "You're sure about that?" She, Ron, and Harry all took another glance toward the Slytherin table, where Malfoy was eating and avoiding eye-contact with everyone around him.

"Okay," Ron conceded. "Maybe I can see your point… a little. But still, I'm not about to return it to him!"

"And I know you're not. That's why I'm going to return it for you." She stuck her hand out, and after a short battle of wills, Ron finally relented and handed it over to her.

* * *

Astoria Greengrass was staring at him, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. It had started while he was eating his eggs, kept up as he drank his coffee, and continued as he patted his mouth dry, turned, and raised his right eyebrow as high as it would go. "Someone hex your eyes, _Arse-toria?_" he asked.

Her upper lip curled. "Do something different with your hair?" she asked, her tone far from innocent.

"Misplaced my hair gel."

"Hmm," she remarked. "I rather like it." With that, she flipped her hair and turned to her right, the girl beside her giggling.

Draco frowned slightly. If that was flirting, she needed to work on her technique. She wasn't bad looking—she had wheat-colored hair and softly-rounded features. She was a little on the young side, though. If he were going to do any dating this year, he'd probably choose someone from the seventh year, unless Padma Patil started appealing to him.

He didn't know Astoria very well. He'd been in the same year as her sister, Daphne—Daffodil or Daphne-Down-Dilly Greengrass, as he invariably called her—but he'd never developed much of an opinion on her other than that she was very good at acquiescing to Pansy's every beck and call, like a prettier version of Goyle.

Or Crabbe.

Suddenly his breakfast didn't seem so appetizing, the cream from his coffee curdling in his stomach.

Vincent Crabbe's death had been a shock for Draco, to put it lightly. He had never seen his friend so… confident? He'd been disobeying Draco's orders, treating him like a coward, acting completely reckless, shouting out Unforgivables like he was popping candies into his mouth. And then, in an accident of Crabbe's own creation, the oaf had died.

But what had really bothered him, about a week after the fact, was that he actually didn't mind that Crabbe had died. At first he'd thought of their mock friendship, years of loyal body-guardedry—if that were a word—the boy he'd watched grow up in the dank dormitory they'd shared together for six years. He'd even thought of that one time in second year when Crabbe's hair had inexplicably started turning red.

But after that one week, he'd realized something vitally important. He really only had been mock friends with the other boy. They'd never truly been chums. And the way Crabbe'd been acting during the final battle, it was as if he were watching a complete stranger rather than one of his so-called best mates.

A wave of anxiety ran through him as he realized how truly alone he was this year. He had no friends. Not really. The other Slytherins, for the most part, were ignoring him, as if they blamed him for the results of the Final Battle. They seemed to know that his reign was over. He'd been knocked off his high-horse, as the saying went, and now he was down in the mud with everyone else.

So far, the longest conversation he'd maintained since leaving his mother the day before yesterday had been with Hermione Granger—muddiest of them all.

The thought of her sent his eyes wandering up front to the staff table, where Professor Trelawney was adding a little brandy to her own morning coffee, Professor McGonagall watching her sternly, as if about to object.

Surely, the woman was an absolute fraud. She'd hardly even sounded convincing while delivering her prophecy. He'd heard a real prophecy once. His grandmother Malfoy had predicted a muggle crisis involving something called a Y2K Bug. But, as it was only 1998, he had yet to find out if the insect would attack or not.

Casually, his eyes wandered over to the Gryffindor table, where the object of the false prophecy was currently buttering a piece of toast. Beside her, Weasley was upset over something.

* * *

Hermione took her usual seat at the front of the Arithmancy classroom, took out her books, quill and ink, and then started rereading _Gulliver's Travels_ while she waited. The Isle of Lilliput was being described as the door to the classroom opened. Looking up, she wasn't entirely surprised to see that it was her new Grief Counseling, House Unification, and Tolerance partner. Hannah had suggested that they all call it GC-HUT, but Hermione was still undecided.

Malfoy glanced at her briefly before he started toward one of the seats in the back.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Er, Malfoy?" she asked.

He turned. "What now?" Hermione fished through her book bag, pulled out the tube of hair gel, and showed it to him before giving it a gentle toss in his direction. It went remarkably off-course, but he managed to catch it anyway.

"I thought you might like to have that back," she said simply. She turned back around and went back to her book. All was silent for about two minutes.

"That's it, then?" he asked. "You're just going to return it to me? No explanation? No apology for your kleptomaniac boyfriend? Not even a pity frown?"

She turned back to face him. "I don't owe you anything. I got you your stupid hair product back, so maybe you should be grateful."

"Oh, yes. Thank you ever so much, Granger. The return of half a tube of goo solves all of life's problems. I am forever in your debt."

"Well, glad we've got that cleared up, then." They lapsed into a tense silent as they waited for the class to start.

Professor Vector started the class in her usual way by writing a number chart on the board, allowing them a few minutes to work on it, and asking if anyone knew the solution. Hermione had just finished calculating and was about to raise her hand when Vector said something that made Hermione drop her quill in shock. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy?"

Hermione swung around in her seat. She had never been second to finish a number chart. Never! "The property of five in relation to the system of elements is equal to the amount of magides present in any given gram of dried bat wing."

Hermione looked furiously down at her parchment. Merlin help her, he was right!

"Very good, Mr. Malfoy! Ten points to Slytherin. Now, I want you all to turn in your books to page 327…."

Hermione was only half paying attention as she opened her copy of _Numbers and Properties: An Advanced Guide to Arithmancy._ It wasn't the end of the world. She had gotten the answer, too. But someone had beaten her to it, and that someone had been Malfoy, of all people. Ordinarily, he would only give answers in Arithmancy if Vector called on him, and even then he usually had some minor part of the answer missing due to sheer laziness.

The nine other members of the class were busy taking notes, the one Hufflepuff writing furiously, looking half-crazed.

The strangest urge to see if Malfoy was being equally studious came over her, but she forced herself to bite it back, instead focusing on Professor Vector's diagram.

"Excuse me, Professor?"

Vector stopped in mid-sentence, looking over Hermione's head. "Yes?"

"It says here that the X should be placed next to the two, not the four."

Vector looked as surprised as Hermione felt. "Oh, yes, so it should. Another five points to Slytherin." As the teacher erased and rewrote, Hermione stole a quick look over her shoulder. Malfoy looked up from his notes, which were incredibly lengthy already, and he sent her a smug smirk, his left eyebrow raised.

She wasn't entirely sure what to make of this new development, but the next time Vector asked a question, she had her hand in the air so quickly that her elbow popped.

"Yes, Miss Granger?" The woman looked startled, and Hermione rattled out the answer in one breath, earning five points for Gryffindor.

By the time class ended, Hermione was actually frazzled. She replaced her books in a daze, her hair falling into her face. Malfoy had to walk past her desk on the way out, and he paused beside her. "You want to be careful, there, Granger. You could get whip-lash raising your hand so fast. And you might want to have someone look at that elbow—quite loud."

She didn't answer. All she knew was that she was going to be on her guard from now on. Studying would be a priority. Beating Draco Malfoy would be her prerogative.

* * *

A.N.: I had some major writers' block while writing this chapter. Never try to write something based entirely on the line "Ron steals hair gel." It may get you into trouble.


	7. Who Are You and Who Are You Not?

8 & 8th—Chapter 7—Who Are You and Who Are You Not?

By Marmalade Fever (duh)

Hermione felt as if her eyeballs were about to fall out. Ever since Arithmancy, every class she'd had with Draco Malfoy had resulted in what was essentially a battle of wits, with Hermione doing everything within her power to not allow him to get ahead of her. Which was why she was now sitting in the Eighth Year common room, studying as much as humanly possible, her eyes dry, her back sore, and her bum, well, numb.

The door opened, and Hannah walked in, a frown on her face. "I think Padma is about to drive me batty," she announced, setting her bag down on the floor in front of the fireplace. "Did you see the note she left on the mirror this morning?"

"No," Hermione replied, slipping her bookmark into her Charms book, which she was now three-quarters of the way through. Not bad for two hours. "I left before any of you got up."

Hannah groaned. "It said, and I quote, 'Towels should be neatly folded and returned to the towel bar. We all have responsibilities; let's keep that in mind, shall we?'"

Hermione furrowed her brow, which was already throbbing from squinting at her book. "I suppose she was overreacting a little," she agreed.

"And then there was the note she left in the shower itself," Hannah continued. "That one said, 'Please keep shampoo bottles in their designated areas.' Was Parvati that bad?"

"Well, no… Parvati was actually a bit of a slob."

Hannah snorted. "I think I know why." She reached into her pocket and removed another note, handing it to Hermione.

"'I feel disrespected when there are hairs in the drain. Please remember to be courteous and clean them up after you shower. Thank you,'" Hermione read, wrinkling her nose.

"That one was on my _pillow_!" Hannah screeched.

"What was on your pillow?" They turned, Malfoy's blond head emerging from the spiral staircase in the corner of the room.

Hannah didn't answer him, instead turning back to Hermione. "It's taking every gram of decorum I have left not to write a nasty note back to her."

"Hufflepuffs have decorum? I didn't know that word was even in your vocabulary," he remarked, crossing to sit on the sofa. He pulled out his own Charms book, and Hermione was happy to see that he was still relatively close to the middle of it. Granted, anyone else probably would still be on the first chapter.

Hannah did turn then, and she sneered. "Malfoy, I'm in a foul enough humor already. Don't make me curse you."

He scoffed. "In the presence of the Deputy Head Girl? Or whatever your title is, Granger," he added.

Hannah paused, casting a wary look toward Hermione. "You wouldn't dock points, would you?" she asked.

Hermione set her book down on the floor and looked carefully between Hannah, who was looking angry enough already, and Malfoy, who was looking just as smug as he usually did. "Well," she said slowly, "it would depend on what you did and what he did to provoke you."

Hannah was standing there, puzzling over Hermione's answer. "So, you mean to say you'd take his side over mine?" she growled.

"Well, no," Hermione quickly remedied, "it's just that it's my job to be fair, and…."

"And you'd take his side over mine!" Hannah repeated. The honey-blonde was turning red in the face. "Him, the Death Eater! You've seen that metal thing hanging off his wrist! He should be in Azkaban, for crying out loud!"

Hermione stood, her book falling off her lap and onto the floor. "And that 'metal thing' is a part of his punishment! You very well know that it's not fair that he should be attacked when he's utterly defenseless like this!"

"Defenseless?" Malfoy raged, now standing up as well. "Granger, I may not have my magic outside of classes, but I'm not bloody well defenseless. If I wanted to get back at her, I could! I don't need you defending me."

"You just did use me to defend you, you spineless git!" Hermione spat. "Now everyone, calm down! I am going to go back to my reading, and I expect to be left in peace!"

Hannah yanked Padma's note out of Hermione's hand before stomping down the spiral stairs, and both Hermione and Malfoy were forced to jump when the dormitory door slammed closed.

"I'm not defenseless," Malfoy repeated in a growl. "And your book is upside-down," he added.

Hermione gritted her teeth before righting her Charms book and returning to the chapter on bewitchment. Out of the very corner of her dry eye, she saw him watching her, but then he shook his head and went back to his reading.

* * *

Hermione glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes. It was now fifteen minutes after her appointment time, and still Professor Amorell had not shown up. She'd down some rune translations, finished chapter seven of her Transfiguration book, and was now tapping her foot rapidly against the stone tiles. Another ten minutes went by, and Hermione began to panic.

Punctuality was very important to her, and it looked as if Professor Amorell had probably forgotten that she had a Grief-Counseling session today. Checking her watch yet again, Hermione finally pulled a piece of parchment from her bag, wrote a note explaining what had happened, and left for the library.

* * *

The weekend went by in a whirl of textbooks for Hermione. Ron had tried in vain to convince her to take a trip into Hogsmeade. He'd even offered to go into "That infernal Puddifoot's shop." Harry and Dean had finally pulled him away to play a game of two-on-two Quidditch with Ginny, laughing about Hermione's homework habits.

And now Monday had come at last, and Hermione, for the second time, was now sitting in her Good-Grief class, as Ginny had finally suggested after her session that same morning.

"Good afternoon, everyone," Amorell greeted them. Her bare toes were painted a flashy shade of fuchsia, and she wore a hemp anklet. The eight members of the class grumbled an unhappy "good afternoon" to her as she sat cross-legged on her desk. "I have a new activity prepared for you all."

Hermione groaned. The word activity, in this class, was not a word she was very pleased to hear.

"Everyone split up with your partners. Very good. Now, here's what I want you to do. I want you to have a little discussion. Dialoguing, it's the key to communication." She smiled brightly. "I want you to tell your partner how you identify yourself. Who are you? Are you an artist? What labels would you give yourself?

"Second, and this is a little more difficult, I want you to say who you aren't. Who is it that you don't identify yourself as? For example, I might say that I am not a coward. Everyone understand? Good." She clapped her hands.

With all due reluctance, Hermione turned toward Malfoy. They scowled at one another. "Well, this is stupid," he said, his voice only lowered enough to keep it out of Amorell's earshot.

"I'd have to agree," Hermione replied. "Well, let's start with the obvious. I am a Gryffindor, as if you didn't know that already."

"Really? I am so surprised," he said blandly. "I'm a Slytherin and a Pureblood. I am not a Gryffindor, nor am I a Muggle-born." He gave her a tiny mock bow, looking annoyed.

"And I am a Muggle-born, but I'm not a Slytherin, a Pureblood, or—" she cut herself off, blushing furiously as two things came to her mind at once.

"Or?" he prodded.

Hermione opened her mouth partway, pausing. "You said muggle-born."

"And we're in class. I'm not completely moronic, you know." He looked at her for a moment, tilting his head to the side. "But that's not why you stopped. What aren't you, Granger, hmm?" He steepled his fingers, something about his tone and posture crying out a warning to her.

Hermione shook her head, suddenly nervous. "Let's just move on…."

"No!" He slammed his hands down onto the desk separating them. "Tell me."

She took a slow breath. "Fine. If you're going to be petulant, I'll tell you. But you won't like it. I know that already."

"Out with it, Granger."

"I was going to say that I'm not a Death Eater. Are you happy now?"

Malfoy squeezed his fists together so tightly that they first turned a violent shade of pink before turning eerily white. But then he relaxed them.

"I told you you wouldn't like it," she stated quietly.

He took a slow calming breath, his eyes closing momentarily, his lashes splayed above his cheeks. When his eyes finally did open… he didn't look angry. Instead, and this was what truly frightened her, he looked sad. His eyes were somewhat glassy, tiny red veins appearing in the whites. "Name something else," he demanded bitterly.

"Something else?"

"Something else you either are or aren't."

Hermione bit her lip, fidgeting in her seat. "Well, I'm a book lover."

He nodded. "Okay, me too. Name another."

"I'm an intellectual."

He snorted. "Ditto." He had, a moment ago, closed his eyes again, but now they opened. "Enjoying our little battle of wits, by the way?"

Hermione wasn't sure she'd ever been so relieved to have him acting smug. "Not particularly. What's your game, anyway?"

He smirked. "I don't know if I'd call it a game. But if it is, would you say I'm winning?"

She pursed her lips. "I'd say you're nipping at my heels."

He laughed. "Fair enough. I suppose I can't get you to relinquish your title that easily, now can I?"

"So, let me get this straight. You're trying to beat me intellectually. But what I'm not entirely sure of is why. It can't be that much fun for you to do all of that extra work."

His smirk broadened. "No, but the reward is very nice."

"Reward?" she queried.

"Well, receiving the honor of beating you, and, heh, getting to see the look on your face as I do."

Hermione rested her chin against her knuckles, looking at him speculatively. The bare hint of shininess had left his eyes, and his coloring had evened out again. His hair was gelled back as usual, which, for reasons she'd rather not think about, disappointed her a little. "We're getting off topic. Who are you and who are you not?"

"I'm filthy rich and not begging for crumbs, like some people."

Hermione followed his gaze across the room to where Ron was sitting. He and August were arguing in hushed tones. Brown eyes turned back to gray. "I'm middle to upper-class, but I'm not a snob."

"Middle to upper-class?"

She shrugged. "We muggles have a class system too, you know. And currency."

"But to upper-class? What in Merlin do your parents do?"

"They clean, repair, and straighten teeth. It's a form of healing, very well-paid."

"Is that what those _things_ on your teeth were?" he asked.

"My braces. They were for straightening." She flashed him a quick smile to show off her teeth.

* * *

Draco wasn't sure why, but the moment Granger smiled at him, something within his stomach flip-flopped in a most unsettling way. He knew her teeth weren't bucktoothed anymore, and yet the contrast still threw him off. And then there was the fact that she was smiling at him… and not in derision, either.

She looked, dare he think it, not bad. Well, not bad enough that he could understand why Weasley, who was not generally known to have wonderful taste, might have wanted to pursue her.

But the smile was gone again within the course of half a second. "Is that what those clunky pieces of metal were called?" he asked. "Most unbecoming. Off-topic again."

"And whose fault is that?" She shook her head, her masses of unkempt curls bouncing.

"Certainly not mine. Come on, Granger, another am or am not."

She scowled. "I am…" she paused, thinking, "I'm…. Oh, I don't know, you come up with something."

"I never thought I'd hear the words 'I don't know' come out of your mouth."

"Fine," she spat, stopping to think again. "I'm a cat-lover."

"Oh, so that's your mangy flea ball I keep stepping on in the common room."

Her eyebrows lowered. "Crookshanks is not a mangy flea ball, thank you very much."

"Well, I don't rightly know if he has fleas, Granger, but you and he could both use a good brushing."

She stood up. "Hey!"

Just then, Amorell approached them, smiling as usual. "Is there a problem?" Quick as a wink, she changed tacts. "Oh, Miss Granger, I wanted to talk to you about rescheduling your counseling session. It seems that I'm thoroughly booked, but I think I can squeeze you into a double-session."

Draco watched curiously as Granger grimaced. "A double-session?" she asked.

"Oh yes," Amorell confirmed. "It's simple, really. You and another student will be counseled at the same time."

"At the same…?" Granger began, but the loopy professor had walked off to grab her chart. However juvenile it might be, Draco stuck his tongue out, and Granger scowled, her nose wrinkling up.

Amorell returned and ran a finger down the list of grief counseling session dates. "Let's see… aha, perfect." She looked up at them both. "Mr. Malfoy is scheduled for the nineteenth. It might be nice to have the two of you go together, seeing how you're already partners here. How does that sound?"

Neither of them thought it sounded good, and their voices overlapped as they protested. "No! I mean, I don't think that's such a good idea. We don't get along, and, well—"

"You're barking if you think we'd get counseling together! What, do you think we're a bloody married couple?"

"It'd be very embarrassing on both our parts. Isn't this in violation of our privacy?"

"I'd rather have detention with Filch and his thumb-screws than—"

"Please don't make us! Please! Anyone else. Ron, for example! Wait, no, not Ron. Um… Ginny! Yes, Ginny Weasley!"

"I don't want to be in counseling in the first place!"

"The nineteenth is my birthday, anyway. You wouldn't make me get counseling on my birthday, would you?"

"Your birthday? On second thought, I'm in. Might be fun to ruin her _special day_."

Amorell placed her fingers in her mouth and whistled. "Shush! My goodness, I think the two of you really do need to have counseling together!" She placed her hands on her willowy hips, looking the most distraught that anyone at Hogwarts had yet seen her. "You will have counseling together, and no, it is not in violation of your privacy according to school codes. You are both to come to my office at four in the afternoon on the nineteenth. And because that is your birthday, Miss Granger, maybe I'll bring fairy cakes for the both of you. Okay? Okay."

She clapped her hands and turned to the class. "Read chapter three of your book and write ten inches on your findings from this activity. Class dismissed."

* * *

A.N. Sadly, that activity was based on something I had to do in class two weeks ago. Isn't that torture supposed to end after high school? Also, please forgive me for this, but I made up a rhyme!

Unless you really truly rue it, if you read it, please review it!


	8. One Way to Celebrate

8 & 8th—Chapter 8!—One Way to Celebrate

By M-Fever

The courtroom was dark, and the man sat strapped to an ugly wooden chair under the watchful speculation of the Wizangamot. Between him and the rows of seats was a long glowing silver-blue flame. It stretched the full length of the room, leaving him completely segregated from the other inhabitants of the room. Every once in awhile, a shape would form within the flame, an animal or another being. Once Draco caught sight of what was unmistakably a rhinoceros head.

"Lucius Malfoy," a wrinkly witch with a bad comb-over stated, "it is by the order of this court, the Wizangamot, the Chief Mugwump, as well as the Minister of Magic, that you shall be rendered incapacitated from this point until you should come to a natural death.

"The soul is a precious thing, Mr. Malfoy. Many people, muggle and magic alike, believe that it is only with a soul that one can gain admittance into the afterlife. The soul is immortal, while the body is not.

"Your soul, Mr. Malfoy, is now in eternal jeopardy. I cannot say whether we are sentencing you to be damned or not. If so, I offer you my deepest condolences. No one truly deserves such a fate, but your past crimes have brought this upon you.

"Your son and wife have been given leniency. They shall not share your fate, of that you may rest easy." She was quiet for a long moment. "Do you have any final words?"

Lucius Malfoy's hair was as perfectly coif as ever, but his general demeanor lacked its usual bravado. He wore pre-owned Ministry-issued prison clothes—black and white stripes like a caricature with dirt, grime, and someone else's blood ground into them.

And the look on his face. There was no sneer. There was no smirk. There was barely an expression that Draco had come to recognize. It was blank, defeated. The man was ruined at last.

The two sets of gray eyes met across the line of flames, equal pain and equal resignation etched into them. He cleared his throat. "I—" he coughed again, his voice weak, "I'd just like to say something to my family. In private?"

The balding witch looked at him speculatively before nodding to Draco and Narcissa. The two scrambled in a dizzy stupor, crossing the flames. "Stop there," the woman ordered, and so they did.

Draco's father looked first to his wife. "I'm sorry, my dear. I'm sorry if I've disappointed you. So many things you've asked me for that I was too daft and sure in myself to concede to. I love you, Cissy. I haven't said it enough in our time together, but it's true."

Tears streamed down the woman's face, and she made a strangled choking noise and tried to step closer, but a warning from the guards kept her back. "I know, Luce, I know. I love you," she added, her voice so soft that it was barely distinguishable. She swayed, and Draco caught her. Her tears soaked into the shoulder of his robes.

"And you, Draco," his father continued, "you turned out much better than I can take credit for. You have something I can only attribute to your mother. You have compassion, my boy. You have the ability to put your loved-ones first. I… I'm sorry I couldn't have done more to protect you. You deserved so much more."

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the tumult of emotions that threatened to spill over. "Thank you, Dad," he said softly.

Draco and Narcissa were escorted back to their seats, and the flames rose up in the air, twenty or thirty silver creatures swimming in and out of sight. The room grew incredibly chilly, and what little happiness that Draco felt was sucked straight from him, his lungs leaden.

The caped figure glided smoothly across the floor, and the memory of impersonating a Dementor cut through him in a way that he could only ascribe to guilt. The creature's bony fingers gently tilted Lucius' chin upward as if for a real kiss. The last thing Draco saw was his father's eyes growing incredibly wide before the creature's hood blocked his line of vision. A moment later, the body in the chair slumped listlessly.

* * *

Hermione's birthday fell on a Saturday. The initial level of anticipation she'd been feeling had drastically dropped off to be replaced by a level of dread. It was the kind of dread that felt similar to wet cement being turned and mixed within her stomach.

She was queasy. She was anxious. She was being bombarded with gifts as soon as she entered the common room. She accepted the gifts from her roommates as well as Harry's.

Ron had a very large grin plastered across his face, and he had his hands hidden behind his back.

"Hey, there, birthday girl," he greeted.

She smiled back at him, though she wasn't sure how authentic her smile actually was, considering she currently felt more like vomiting than celebrating. "Morning."

He winked once before pulling a small gift-wrapped parcel from behind his back. From the corner of the room, Malfoy scoffed. "Couldn't get her anything bigger, eh, Weasley?"

Ron turned. "Stay out of it, Ferret." He pulled his wand from his pocket and twiddled it between his fingers.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "You're holding the wrong end, Weasel."

The cement just kept on churning. "Thank you," Hermione spoke-up, bringing Ron's attention back to her. She turned the small polka dot package over and slid her finger beneath the spello-tape to reveal a clamshell gift box.

And suddenly her stomach was churning for a completely different reason. She and Ron had gotten closer over the summer, but the actual dating part of their relationship was still fairly new. They were still relatively young, and he wouldn't… would he?

She had to mentally remind herself that Ron wasn't exactly down on one knee and that it was barely ten in the morning, and Draco Malfoy was sitting on the other side of the room.

Ron was not proposing.

But what if he was? a tiny voice in the back of her mind yelped. He hadn't exactly shown vast amounts of romantic intuition in the past. And if he was….

All her life, she'd dreamt of the day (preferably night) when she would be proposed to. There would be candlelight. Gershwin or Sinatra playing in the background. Azaleas and magnolias and baby's breath. And most importantly, she'd be more than nineteen and would have been dating the man for more than three or four months.

In short, she felt that dream slipping through the cracks as she hesitated, velvet box in hand. Her heart was heavier than usual.

"Well, go on," Ron prompted.

With a small gulp, Hermione nodded and opened the box, instantly letting out a sigh of relief when she realized it was a bracelet. She gave Ron a fake little smile as she turned the small silver charm over. Padma and Hannah, who weren't speaking to one another, both cooed, calling them cute, while August just looked a little speculative.

"It's a weasel," Ron informed her, smiling broadly. "Okay, a little weird, I know, but…."

"Actually, _Weasel_, that's a ferret," Malfoy said, having come up behind them, causing both Ron and Hermione to jump.

"Actually," she corrected, "a ferret is a member of the weasel family. But this isn't a ferret, Malfoy. This is an ermine."

"How can you tell?" he quipped. "It's the size of a pea."

Feeling considerably better now that she knew that Ron wasn't proposing, though there was an amount of guilt over that fact that was now nestling its way into her brain, she shrugged. "Its tail and snout," she said simply.

Ron looked puzzled. "There's an animal in the weasel family called an ermine?"

Malfoy blinked slowly at him. "Do you think we'd be talking about it if there weren't?" he said, equally slowly.

Ron scowled. "No one invited you into this conversation in the first place." He turned to face Hermione, who had just managed to do the clasp on the bracelet. "How do you spell it?"

"I-T," Malfoy responded, clearly enjoying just bugging them.

"E-R-M-I-N-E," Hermione answered, sending a glare in the blond boy's direction.

Ron grinned. "Huh. That's pretty funny."

"Way to be explanatory, Weasel."

"I just meant," Ron continued, trying to shove Malfoy out of the way, "that it's funny that it's called an ermine. Because, you know, it kind of sounds like Hermione… if you say Hermione wrong. And all of the letters in it, er, in ermine, are in Hermione, in the same order, too."

Hermione covered her mouth and laughed. "That is kind of funny." And then her heart began beating uncomfortably as Ron uncovered her mouth, squeezed her hand, and leaned in to kiss her.

"Well, I'm going to be sick," Malfoy remarked, faking a gagging sound.

Secretly, Hermione agreed. She didn't especially like kissing in front of others. It made her feel as if she were on display, and Harry didn't look especially comfortable either.

Hannah just sighed. "Oh, Malfoy. You wouldn't know romance if it came up and bit you on the nose."

"Says the girl reported to have snogged Longbottom."

"Says the boy who ignored Pansy to the point that _I_ had to console her in the sixth year." Hannah shuddered. "She's clingy! I wasn't sure I'd ever get her to loosen her grip on me."

"Tell me about it." He grimaced. "Now combine that with her trying to stick her tongue down your throat and—"

Ron clapped his hands over his ears. "Come on, let's go for a walk," he suggested, and he and Hermione left the common room. Now the wet cement in her stomach had been dashed with lemon juice.

* * *

The morning passed much too quickly, and by the time four o'clock came, Hermione felt nothing short of nauseous. There were too many things that could, and probably would, come up in the Grief Counseling session that were personal. Too personal for her to comfortably share with Amorell and downright embarrassing to share with Malfoy.

She paused in front of Amorell's office door, her hand poised to knock. There had to be a way out of this, but nothing, for once, was coming to mind.

A shadow fell over her, and she tensed.

"You realize you're the oldest student in the school?" There was something in his voice that just wasn't quite right. It was gravelly.

"Your point being?"

His shadow shrugged. "Just an observation. Maybe you should use some of that Gryffindor courage and open the door."

She closed her eyes, breathed gently in through her nose, and knocked. Amorell called for them to enter.

There were two squishy armchairs in front of Amorell's desk, and Hermione sat down in the one closest to the door. Malfoy sank into his, his face set stonily.

Oddly enough, the overzealous professor had indeed brought fairy cakes with fluffy pink icing and yellow sprinkles on them, but there was no way Hermione was going to be able to stomach one at that moment. Malfoy wrinkled his nose when he was offered one.

"Let's see now," Amorell began, leafing through one of two files she had on her desk. "Mr. Malfoy and Ms. Granger, hmm…. Miss Granger, what's this about Australia?"

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. She could handle talking about that. "Oh, that would be about my parents. You see, I—." Okay, so maybe it wouldn't be so easy to talk about, she felt her cheeks growing pink. Malfoy remained completely stationary out of the corner of her eye. "I modified their memories so that they wouldn't be at risk and sent them to live in Australia, where they, er, wouldn't remember me…." Her voice had trailed off at the end.

"Hmm," Amorell replied, tapping a quill against her chin. "I'm sure that was very stressful for you, given the possibility that you could have permanently damaged their minds. And forcing one's own parents to forget you? That is rather difficult, isn't it? Speaking of parents…" she rifled through the other file folder, "Mr. Malfoy, I see here that your father was sentenced to the Dementors' Kiss a little less than a month ago. How does that make you feel?"

Hermione's mouth fell open for him, and she clenched her hands into fists. "Not too well," he ground out through obviously clenched teeth, the most awful bitter tone in his voice that she had ever heard.

"And I hear that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was temporarily living at your home?"

Hermione couldn't help herself. Although everything about the situation screamed at her not to make eye-contact with him, she had to turn to look.

He was white. For someone so pale already, he looked ghostly. His fingers were tightly clenched around the arms of his chair, and his entire frame was shaking. The whites of his eyes were red and glassy, and for the second time in only weeks, he was on the verge of tears, and Hermione was forcibly present to witness it. There was something deep, dark, and painful swirling within Draco Malfoy at that moment. A wound that was still very fresh and did not need to be reopened just yet.

She wasn't sure what came over her. Call it righteous indignation, but she was suddenly standing, her voice bellowing. "STOP! Can't you see? Can't you see how much this is hurting him to even _think_ about? This is personal. Much, much too personal."

Beside her, Malfoy stared up at her. "Granger…" he began in a frog-throated voice.

Hermione was too busy staring at Amorell, who seemed completely at ease with the onslaught of emotions ramming at her. "I don't care anymore!" Hermione screamed. "You can't do this to him! And certainly not in front of me. Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is for us?"

"Ms. Granger," Amorell began in what was meant to be a placating voice, "please settle down and allow your classmate to answer the question."

"Not in front of me he isn't! I—" a horrible idea had sprung to mind, one that she would probably greatly regret in the long-run, "—I'm just going to skip it! Dock the points from me because I'm not going to participate in this… this… interrogation!" With that, she stomped her way out of Amorell's office, only to collapse outside the door.

Dock the points? _Dock the points?_ For Draco Ferret-Face Malfoy?

She clasped her hands to her face. There was no way she'd beat him if she failed Grief Counseling. And she'd completely brought it upon herself.

* * *

A.N.: Eighth chapter of Eight and Eighth. Say that eight times fast.

Also, ermine is pronounced er-min, rhyming with Herman.


	9. Conspiracy and Egg Shells

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 9—Conspiracy and Egg Shells

By Marmalade Fever

Hermione sat at the Gryffindor table during breakfast, pretending to be eating her Belgian waffle. However, she was actually keeping one eye on the staff table. It was odd, really, but a feeling of foreboding had come over her the minute Professor Trelawney decided to grace the Great Hall with her presence and sit down next to Amorell. That foreboding had taken a leap and bound as the two professors shook hands, Trelawney smiled widely, and then proceeded to gesture directly toward Hermione on one side of the hall and then toward Draco Malfoy on the other.

As was the crux of foreboding feelings, this could not possibly bode well.

Amorell nodded enthusiastically, a large grin splaying across her face and wrinkling her long pink scar.

It wasn't exactly verifiable at this point, but Hermione would bet her copy of _Hogwarts: A History_ that Professor Trelawney, that absolute stinker, was currently trying her utter best to make sure her little prediction worked itself into reality. And if, say, she was trying to convince Amorell that she and Malfoy would make a cute couple, or some such rubbish, then life was about to become just that much more unpleasant.

Ron nudged her in the elbow. "Hey, look." He was pointing to a butter toffee-colored owl that was currently swooping right towards her. She managed to swing her plate out of the way just in time for it to land, flapping its wings into Dean's goblet of pumpkin juice.

Dean groaned, mopping up the spill. "Times like this that I seriously miss good, old-fashioned postmen."

"Who's your letter from?" Harry asked.

"Hmm." She extracted the letter from the owl's leg and flipped it open. "Andromeda," she answered. She made a quick skim of it. "She wants to know if we'd be interested in meeting with her in Hogsmeade some weekend to spend time with Teddy."

Ron made a face. "Just as long as we don't play, 'pass the baby to Uncle Ronnikins' and have him spit up on me again."

Hermione shook her head. "It's what they _do_, Ron. Besides, I wouldn't let you hold that baby again unless you've learned not to throw him around like a football."

"A—?"

"A quaffle," she remedied.

"No, seriously, does it look like a foot, or…?"

"I believe it's a round ball with black pentagons and white hexagons that is kicked around a playing field," Amorell said from behind them, startling Hermione and Ron completely. She sent them a smile that was reminiscent of Luna Lovegood. "What's this about a baby?"

Hermione moved to open her mouth, but Harry beat her to it. "My godson. We're going to be visiting with him in Hogsmeade." Apparently, Harry hadn't learned to fear and/or rue Amorell in the same way Hermione had, having partnered with Hannah, who was relatively at ease with him, despite small amounts of hero-worship.

Amorell stroked her finger up and down her scar. "Problems taking responsibility with babies? Hmm, that's very interesting." She beamed at them again. "Well, I'll be seeing you in class. Oh, and Miss Granger? If you could stay a minute or so late, I'd like to have a word with you." She winked, and it wasn't anything Hermione found remotely pleasant.

"What do you suppose she meant by that?" Ron asked, a mangled little frown on his face.

She sighed. "I don't know, and frankly, I don't think I _want_ to know."

* * *

Draco's owl, X, had just swooped down toward him, extending his leg where familiar cream-colored parchment was tied with a bright silver ribbon. His mother was the only person he knew who actually used something other than twine or a leather postal pouch to attach everyday correspondence.

_Dear son… miss you terribly… hope you're doing well… have been catching up on all of my reading… have been ordering flower bulbs for the west garden… petitioned to be allowed to have a small dinner party… can't believe the ministry made me promise to petition to have more than three guests at a time… wondering whether you'll be allowed to come home for Christmas… received a letter from your aunt Andromeda…._

Draco stopped his skimming to reread the portion about his aunt. He'd only met her once, and that had been during a Black family reunion. Apparently, said aunt had crashed without an invitation. She was the one who'd gone and married a Mudblood, and her daughter had married his old werewolf professor from the third year.

_I received a letter from your aunt Andromeda. She's recently lost her husband, daughter, and son-in-law, and is now raising her grandson on her own. She sent a photograph of him. He had violet hair, oddly enough. Did you know your cousin was a Metamorphmagus? The trait has apparently been passed on to young Theodore, or Teddy, as she refers to him. Such a common name. I expect your future children to have names worthy of their heritage…._

And his mother had gone off on a tangent about proper baby names. She'd even suggested Scorpius, though even he found that one just a bit over-pretentious.

He was struck by her statement about Christmas. He wasn't allowed to leave Hogwarts grounds, but surely the Ministry would allow him to go home for the holidays? It wasn't really even so much for himself that he wanted it; it was for her.

Despite her nonchalant front, it sounded as if his mother felt every bit as lonely and cooped up as he did. She was stuck in the Manor for an entire year without the use of her wand. If it weren't for the house-elves and mail ordering, he wasn't sure how she'd be able to survive. At least he was surrounded by annoying twerps at all hours of the day to keep him moderately entertained… or something like that.

* * *

After lunch, Draco made his way to… what was it the Gryffindors had called it? Good Grief Class? It had been a mere two days since his grief counseling session that had run awry. For two blessed days, he'd been able to hide away from his fellow Eighth Years and pretend that Hermione Granger had not A) defended him, and B) allowed points to be docked from her class grade in order to spare his feelings.

He admitted he didn't know an especially large amount about the girl, but one thing he did know was this: she did not enjoy losing points on an assignment.

Her martyrdom scared him halfway to Jupiter and back.

What was it with the Gryffindors that made them act so selfless so much of the time? Okay, so perhaps it wasn't all of them. He'd never really noticed, say, Finnegan being especially upstanding, and that Brown girl certainly wasn't a peach.

No, it was mostly Granger and Saint Potter. The Final Battle had certainly proven that, much to his annoyance.

He found a seat toward the back of the classroom. He wouldn't be able to sit there for long, at least, not alone. Last class she'd had them all playing some game that he still couldn't see the point of, involving favorite foods, worst fears, and a hot potato. Unfortunately, the hot potato had been doctored up with sour cream and chives, making it quite messy when they had to throw it to one another. He had a suspicion that it had been some sort of botched muggle practice.

Granger avoided eye-contact with him when she entered the room with Potter and Weasley, not that that was anything new. Thomas entered a moment later and sat down with Patil. Things had been rather tense with him as well, probably owing to the whole imprisoned-in-his-manor fiasco. Lovegood had forgiven him easily enough.

Amorell entered the classroom with a skip in her step. The actual session he'd had with her after Granger had left had been… disgusting, to say the least. But it could have been worse, he conceded. Much worse. She wore seaweed green robes today and carried a common shopping bag in her hand. "Well," she said, taking a seat on the edge of her desk and surveying them as if she were looking at a display of chocolates at Honeydukes, trying to decide between them, "I've 

got a very special lesson planned for the day." She looked downright giddy before reaching into her bag and removing an egg carton, as if she were unveiling something grand.

Across the classroom, Granger frowned, rolled her eyes, and mutely whimpered. Apparently, she had some idea of what the professor had planned.

Amorell snapped her fingers, a command they'd come to associate with her desire for them to pair up. Granger left Potter and Weasley to take the seat beside him. She kept her eyes to the front. One by one, Amorell gave each pair an egg. Draco left his alone. He'd never especially liked knowing that it had once been covered in goop after being pushed out of the end of a hen. A very similar idea could be said for mammals, but he had to draw a line somewhere. Granger reached out and moved the egg closer to her.

"This egg is your child," Amorell announced. Draco blinked. What? "For the remainder of this lesson, I want you to practice handling this egg with care. Defend it. Make sure it doesn't get broken. Pretend to be a happy little family unit." She winked at Ron Weasley, who was staring blankly up at her with a "why me?" look upon his face.

Granger raised a hand in the air, looking slightly ill. "Professor, what does this have to do with _anything_?" Despite the discomfiture he was presently feeling around the fluffy-haired brunette, he couldn't help but smile just the teensiest bit. It was similar to the tone she'd taken with Trelawney. The girl certainly knew how to be rude to incompetent professors when the need arose.

Amorell looked completely unfazed by the tone, however. "Remember back to the first day of class when we were talking about tolerance, Miss Granger? Remember how I spoke to you about sexism? I'd like to make sure that you all someday become happy, mutually hard-working parents. I don't want the belief that women are meant to be the main caretaker to take root. Paternity is very important too."

Granger closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose.

"Whatever you do," Amorell continued, "don't let the egg break." She flashed a smile. "Oh, and you'll be graded on creativity, so you might want to come up with a name, maybe fashion a tiny pram."

As Granger finally turned to face him, she had a look upon her face as if she'd just been sucking on a lemon. "Well, Malfoy," she said, "congratulations, it's a future omelet."

He honestly couldn't help it. He laughed.

* * *

Hermione stared at him for a long time. He was laughing at a joke she'd made? Seriously? Since when did he ever laugh with her instead of at her?

He seemed to make the same realization and sobered himself. There was an uncomfortable silence between them, broken as, five desks over, Ron made a wise-crack.

"I think it's mostly related to you. See, it's rather _small_."

August slapped him upside the head while Amorell wasn't looking. "Well, at least I'm not a _chicken_."

"Chicken? Moon, I'm a Gryffindor. That's an oxymoron."

August simply raised an eyebrow as if she disagreed.

Returning her attention to her own egg-child, Hermione half-expected Malfoy to make some comment about her being an egg-head, to which she planned to quip with a comment about his lack of melanin, but he didn't. He got out an inkwell and a quill and drew a funny little face on the side of the egg, one little tooth hanging out of the smile. "What are you…?"

"Creativity. She's grading on creativity." He shrugged. He topped off his artwork with a curly cue and a bow on the small end and a nappy at the other.

"Very… cute," she said at last. "I didn't know you could draw."

"I used to need something to pass the time in Binn's class." He replaced the top on his inkwell and wiped his fingers off on a handkerchief. "Eggbert or Eggletina?"

Was it her imagination, or were they have a perfectly civil conversation? "Well, with the bow, I'd say Eggletina," she answered.

"Eggletina Malfoy. Lovely." He wrinkled his nose.

Hermione smiled very slightly. "Not quite how you'd hoped your first born to turn out?"

"Limbs would have been a nice addition," he remarked drily. For one extremely awkward moment, they smiled at one another. But apparently Hermione had a death wish.

"So," she said, as she removed a spare bit of parchment from her bag to work on transfiguring it into something apropos to the assignment. She coughed, suddenly nervous. "How, er, did it go on Saturday? After I left, I mean," she added.

He bit his lip, looking at her slowly from the corner of his eye. She felt as if she were being studied under a microscope. "Fine," he said at last. He would have been blasé if it weren't for the slight grit to his voice.

"Fine?" she repeated.

He groaned. "Look, it's nice," he said the word with a grimace, "of you to be all concerned, but don't be. Okay? Let's just stick to the status quo. You be frumpish, I'll be snarky, and that'll be that."

She blinked. "Frumpish?"

A weak smirk curled his lip. "You heard me."

She sniffed indignantly, though, honestly, she wasn't that hurt. For the two of them, this was relatively friendly, and he didn't exactly sound like he was putting his heart into insulting her. They worked silently for a long time, working together to transfigure parchment and other odds and ends into a tiny, egg-sized perambulator. They'd just placed the finishing touches on the wheels when an awful crunching sound came from several feet across the room.

August stood, and despite her size, she currently looked just as scary and menacing as a professional wrestler before a match. "RONALD WEASLEY!" she bellowed. "WHAT DID YOU DO?"

Ron sat with his hands still poised from whatever position he'd been in before the tragic demise of his own egg-child. It almost looked as if he'd been juggling. "Um…." He gulped. "Oops?"

With all the agility of a python, Lil' August Moon tackled him to the ground, and it took both Harry and Dean to get her off of him.

Amorell, wide-eyed and tickled-pink, swooped in and laid one hand on Ron's shoulder and one on August's. "Now this," she said, "is one reason why I've been encouraging you all to work in pairs. You need to learn to be interdependent, that your actions can have negative consequences, not only on yourself, but on others as well." She turned to face Ron. "I'm hereby assigning you and Miss Moon a second egg. The two of you will take turns keeping it safe throughout the week. It must be within one foot of either of you at all times. And I really do encourage you to work together."

Ron opened his mouth. "But won't it go bad?"

Amorell gave him a disgustingly saccharine smile. "A rotten egg only reeks if it breaks," she said, as if reciting a proverb. She clapped his shoulder before she started making her rounds to inspect her work, Ron still looking stunned and August looking ready to break something.

Amorell stopped in front of Hermione and Malfoy. "Wonderful… wonderful," she praised, pushing the miniature pram back and forth with one ill-manicured fingernail. "Full points on the assignment and an extra ten points to both Gryffindor and Slytherin." She paused to write down their grade on her clipboard.

"Oh, and Miss Granger?" she added, as everyone else began to pack up. "I've got a little make-up assignment for you to substitute for Saturday's snag."

* * *

A.N.: I'd just like to issue a little apology for the fact that we're now over twenty-thousand words in, Ron and Hermione are still a couple, and neither Draco nor Hermione have started getting goo-goo eyes. But, if it makes you feel better, I plan another forty to sixty-thousand words.

Also, finals are coming, followed directly by summer vacation. You'd think that would mean I'd update more often, but it might actually slow me down. Just to warn you.

Brownie points to anyone who caught the Mr. Rogers reference.


	10. The Cannons and the Egg

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 10—The Cannons and the Egg

By Marmalade Fever

Amorell's substitute assignment turned out to be peculiarly sane. All Hermione had to do was stay an extra day at school during Winter Break for a make-up Grief Counseling session, and because she hadn't been entirely sure if she even planned on going home for Christmas this year due to her parents' plan to visit distant relatives in the Yukon Territory, she thought that she might just stay the whole break after all. Besides, she had never liked flying—be it by plane or by broom—and that would have been hellish, if somewhere cold could be called such.

* * *

"Just help me cast a cushioning charm!" Ron begged, tugging on her hand.

"No, Ron."

"Please? I'll give you a really cute pet name! Her-my-girl?" he tried, giving her a hopelessly desperate smile.

She slapped her hand against her face and shook her head. "First, never call me that again unless you want me to hex you. Second… Ron, this egg is meant to be the equivalent of a _child_, and you're not exactly going to be able to just cast a cushioning charm on a child for the whole of its life. So, no. I'm not going to help you." She softened at the disappointed look on his face and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"But August is being completely unreasonable," he said, grimacing. "She said that since it's my fault, I have to take the egg during the day, and she gets to take it at night, when she can just put it on her trunk beside her and forget about it."

"Actually, her trunk is at her feet," Hermione corrected. "And last night, she kept it in a wad of towels between her pillow and the wall."

"Yeah, but still," he protested. "She's got it easy. She only has to take care of it while she's _sleeping_."

"And you're the one who broke the first egg in class. You weren't seriously juggling it, were you?"

Ron didn't answer but instead tugged her into the Great Hall, where Harry and Ginny were already snuggled together over a plate of melon.

"No way!" This came from Dean, who sat on the other side of Ginny's friend Mordrana.

"What?" Ron asked, very carefully setting his egg in an egg dish.

Dean crowed happily and tossed his copy of the Prophet to him. Almost immediately, Ron's eyes widened. "No way!" he echoed.

"What?" Hermione asked, having just poured herself a cup of coffee.

Ron looked about as giddy as she had ever seen him before. "Tryouts!" he jabbered. "This Friday! Open to all! _Cannons!_" he added, doing a sort of squirmy dance on the bench. "I'm going to go!"

"Ron, that's during classes!" Hermione squawked, yanking the paper out of his hands to take a closer look at the article.

"Why such short notice?" Harry wondered, grinning at Ron's very obvious enthusiasm.

"The Keeper—"

"Oscar Gibbs!" Ron supplied.

"Declared his retirement. It says he was tired of being hit by bludgers," Hermione stated. "Ron, it sounds kind of dangerous."

"Oh, pish posh," he said, waving her off. "Joey Jenkins has gotten loads better at beating since he got his eyesight tested. And look—" he jabbed his finger at the article, "Galvin Gudgeon is being sacked while they're at it. Harry, you could come with me and try out for Seeker!"

"But it's during classes!" Hermione reminded. "And besides, even if you do somehow get a spot on the team, you've got the entire school year left to go. What are you going to do when you're as banged up as this Gibbs bloke and you've never even taken your NEWTs?"

Ron shrugged. "Work for George. But look, we'd get to meet with Ragmar Dorkins in person! What do you say, Harry?"

"Do I have to remind you about your egg?" Hermione cried, feeling as if her entire world were crumbling through her fingers like a clod of talcum powder.

"Oh, come on!" Ron argued. "Hermione, a break like this doesn't happen every day! And… I'm sure August…." He trailed off, looking hopelessly off to the Hufflepuff table.

"Doesn't August sort of hate the Cannons?" Dean asked. "And sort of you too, at the mo'?"

Ron frowned. "Yeah, but… I'll figure something out." He poked at his egg. "Harry? Come practice with me later?"

Harry agreed, though he was looking at Hermione with apprehension. She sat with her arms crossed. Ron was absolutely clueless. He wouldn't be able to come back to school again as a ninth year, after all. This was his very last chance to finish his education. _Then_ he could go gallivanting off to try his hand at a position on a team that hadn't won a game in one-hundred-six years. A team whose motto was, "Let's all just keep our fingers crossed and hope for the best."

He just didn't understand that his choices had consequences. How were they ever going to be able to start a family together if—she froze. Something in her line of thinking had just made her extremely uncomfortable, the exact way she'd felt on the train when Padma had announced Parvati's marriage and again when she'd thought Ron had been about to propose on her birthday.

Was there something wrong with her? Why did the thought of someday being married to Ron, her boyfriend and best friend, make her feel so uncomfortable? She loved him… right?

She no longer felt especially hungry.

* * *

Harry was groaning. "I'm so confused," he said, as the two of them made their way up to the Gryffindor common room to meet with Ginny after Transfiguration. They'd left Ron talking to McGonagall, who hadn't been especially happy with the turtle he'd been turning into a mongoose instead of a muskrat.

"What about?" Hermione asked.

"Careers," he groaned. "Life from here on out." He looked over at her. "You know, I hadn't really, er, been planning that much on life after Voldemort. And now…."

"You're lost," she finished for him.

"Exactly." He sighed. "And I dunno, really. McGonagall's all set on my taking over Defense Against the Dark Arts next year. Ron thinks I should try out for Seeker for the Cannons, and knowing my luck," he rolled his eyes, "I'll probably get it, he won't make Keeper, and then he'll make me feel guilty about it for the rest of our lives. And then there's Ginny." He looked hopelessly toward her.

"What about her?"

"I think," he gulped, "that she might want to, er, get engaged now while we're still in school."

Hermione stopped. "How do you…."

"She told me her ring size. I mean, she tried to make it all casual, but… ugh. I love her; I want to spend the rest of my life with her, but—"

"It's too soon." Something about having this conversation with Harry was both alleviating and elevating her earlier worries. On the one hand, it was nice to know that Harry wasn't ready for that big of a step. On the other… Ginny was. And Ginny was over a year younger than her, nearly two.

"Right," he agreed. "What do you think?"

"Well," she began, shaking herself out of her own concerns for the moment, "I suppose the question you should be asking yourself is, what do you want?"

"What do I want?" Harry snorted. "I wish it were that simple." He gave her a little smile.  
"Thank you, though. Not exactly like I'm asked what _I_ want all the time."

She smiled back, and a question lodged itself into her head.

What did she want?

* * *

Ron and Harry planned to leave directly after lunch on Friday, and they would miss all of their afternoon classes, which included both Charms and Potions. They were having a test on Wila Newt's Syndrome countercharms that day, too.

When Hermione woke that morning, she dressed and left her dormitory, feeling groggy after Padma and Hannah had bickered over a misplaced stocking into the wee hours of the morning. The tiny alcove that housed the doors to the boys' and girls' dormitories and the spiral staircase was dark, and she'd just climbed three steps up when she came to an abrupt stop, just barely missing Draco Malfoy's lower back. "What—oomph!" Her eyes widened considerably as his palm pressed into her nose and his fingers pressed into her lips.

"Shh," he whispered, and he didn't move his hand away, staying perfectly still. Ron and August's voices drifted down to them from above.

"No, you listen!" August growled. "This egg is your fault, and you will be taking responsibility for it! That means you either stay here and forget your stupid Chudley Cannons or you take the egg with you!"

"I can't take it with me! Are you crazy? What if I'm hit by a bludger, huh?"

"Which is why you'd better, you know, forget your stupid Chudley Cannons! They're the most inane, ineffective, ill-trained team I've ever had the misfortune of seeing play!"

"You've seen them play?"

"Sure I've seen them play! My Uncle Fonso was on their team five years ago—"

"Fonso the Fender is your uncle!" It sounded as if Ron were about to have a conniption. "That's… that's… sweet Merlin!"

"Alfonso Moon, you idiot. Didn't the name suggest anything to you?"

"Well, I—"

August growled. "Ugh! You know, for a supposed major fan of a team, you sure are thick!"

"Hey!"

"I bet you aren't even that good a player. In fact, I bet you they'll dismiss you before your trial's even run."

There was the rather distinct sound of Ron stomping his foot. "Listen here, Midget-Girl!"

"You did not just make fun of my height!"

Ron stuttered. "Yeah, s'pose I did. But listen here, Moon. I bet… I bet I can not only get on the team, I bet I can keep the egg with me and keep it from breaking as well!"

August snorted. "And what are we betting?"

"I…" Ron trailed off. "Loser has to carry the winner's books for a month."

"What? No way. You're so gigantic it wouldn't make a difference to you if you've got a few extra kilos or not. No… hmm…."

Hermione shifted, having suddenly reminded herself that Malfoy's fingers were still pressed into her lips, and he seemed to remember himself and tugged his hand away. For a long moment, her lips felt tingly… tainted, perhaps.

His fingers were warm and callused and smelled like honey-scented soap. That was a surprise.

The sound of a different set of fingers being snapped jerked Hermione back into reality. "I've got it," August said. "Winner gets a favor. Anything doable."

"A favor?" Ron's voice was absolutely chock-full of skepticism.

"What? Afraid of losing to little ol' me?"

"Little is right…. You've got a deal, Moon."

"But you listen here, Weasley." There was a strangled sound from Ron, and Hermione could only assume that August had tugged on his tie to bring him down to her level. "If you let that egg break, I will tell Hermione what you did."

Hermione blinked. Did? What did Ron do now? Malfoy made a funny sound, halfway between a laugh and a sniff… but not a snort. That would probably be too undignified for the high and mighty house of Bad-Faith.

Ron spluttered. "Now don't do anything hasty!"

And, of course, this had to be the exact moment when Harry left the boys' dormitory and poked Hermione in the back. "What's the holdup?"

"Nothing, nothing," Hermione hissed, feeling very self-conscious after eavesdropping and just a bit miffed by the fact that she hadn't found out what Ron was hiding from her.

From the sound of it, he'd probably broken a rule or done something callous to a house-elf.

The sound of Harry's voice immediately quieted both Ron and August, and Hermione shoved slightly at Malfoy's back to get him going up the rest of the stairs. Merlin only knew why he'd been so interested in the conversation.

* * *

Draco could hardly believe it. He now had the absolute best piece of blackmail on Weasley imaginable. In the few minutes before Granger had bumped into his back, he'd overheard the most interesting thing.

Weasley had "accidentally" kissed Moon earlier on in the week.

He couldn't quite understand how that could possibly be accidental. The Weasel would've had to have stooped over half his height to have even reached her. The story had involved a runaway mongoose and Weasley tripping over his overlarge feet and landing on _Lil'_ Moon.

Landing mouth to mouth.

The entire situation was snort-worthy, and Draco wasn't one to snort.

And the absolute crux of the situation, the most sweetest part of all, was that Weasley didn't want Granger to find out, however innocent the entire situation sounded, which suggested that perhaps the situation was not as innocent as it truly should be. Perhaps there were dirty thoughts running rampant through that gingered head that didn't necessarily pertain to a certain bookworm.

It was funny, though. Moon wasn't exactly the most beautiful girl in the school. She was plain—by far more plain than Granger. She had lank light ash-brown hair in a dull, uneven shoulder cut, and there was something in the shape of her nose that brought to mind a cube. She was entirely forgettable, which was probably why he'd never paid her any mind before this year… besides the fact that she was a Hufflepuff.

Moon's lips were not kissable lips, either.

Granger's lips, on the other hand—Draco physically stopped on his trek to the Great Hall.

Three minutes ago, he'd been hand-kissing Hermione Granger.

His fingertips had touched Hermione Granger's lips.

The thought of running to the nearest loo to wash his hands hadn't even entered his mind, and it was only now, fingers flexing and only the faintest trace of tacky lip gloss being reflected by the light from the nearest brazier, that Draco stopped to consider whether it was truly necessary to make a stop to wash his hands or not.

If he could use his wand, no question, he'd scourgify his fingers and that would be it. As it was… to wash or not to wash? Did he care? He didn't feel especially dirty, at least, not in the sense he was meant to feel.

He almost felt, dare he say it, ever so slightly allured? Now there was a thought! Allured by the idea of Hermione Granger's lips. So what if they were soft? So what if her breath had been gentle and humid against his upper palm?

It was merely that she was a girl, and he had rampant-hormone-syndrome.

It had nothing to do with palm-to-lips being holy palmers' kiss, or whatever it was the Muggle Studies professor had recited very loudly from the dungeons at Malfoy Manor before her death.

He cringed as he continued walking, by-passing the boys' toilet. There were some memories he'd rather quash.

* * *

Hermione was grumpy all through the afternoon as she waited for Ron and Harry to get back, and it didn't help that both August and Malfoy kept shooting her funny looks. She assumed August's reasoning was that she was keeping whatever it was a secret. What Malfoy was thinking was an enigma that she didn't have the energy to solve.

It was half-past eight in the evening when the door to the Eighth Year Common Room opened, and Ron and Harry entered, both muddy and looking slightly annoyed. At first Hermione figured that this meant they had been denied positions, but then she realized that they were being closely tagged by Myrtle.

"It's not fair," the ghost moaned. "Why should you all be here? This was my deathbed. _Mine!_"

"Oh, lay off it, will you?" Ron said. He sank into an arm chair, groaning. "I'm beat."

"No respect! But why would anyone respect me? No one ever has. No one…." And Myrtle burst into tears before whirling twice around the room and disappearing through the portrait of the imp.

Nonplussed, August turned to look at Ron. "So, how did it go?" She had one eyebrow raised.

Ron shrugged, and Harry collapsed into a heap next to the fireplace. "Got a callback." This was from Harry.

Hermione wasn't sure whether to be relieved, happy, or to console Ron. She settled for a very small smile of support.

"And you?" August prompted.

Ron shrugged again, rubbing his eyes. "They just said I was the best Keeper they'd seen try-out in fifty-four years, that's all." And suddenly the beaten expression on his face made a three-hundred-sixty degree turnabout to absolute triumph.

"So…" Hermione said, confused by her own calm, "you got a callback?"

Ron burst into laughter. "Did I get a callback, Harry?"

Harry shook his head, sinking further into the rug on the floor. "Nope."

"I bagged it!" Ron cried, grinning maniacally. "You should've seen me! I thought I'd be nervous, but I wasn't at all. I even did this awesome move where I weaved in and out of hoops, head-butting the quaffle, and they said they wanted to get it officially called the Weasley Wiggle! I was absolutely on-fire! At one point, I hit the quaffle with the tail of my broom all the way to the other set of hoops and _made a goal!_"

Hermione watched and listened patiently for the next hour as Ron continued his story, making extremely wild hand gestures to illustrate his saves.

She still wasn't sure if he realized just precisely what this meant. He'd be missing for large chunks of the rest of the school year for practice and games. She was doubtful he'd be able to keep up. And sooner or later, he'd probably end up flat on his back after a bludger had bludgeoned him into a bleeding pulp.

When Ron's story was at last over, he stood, stretched, and headed toward the spiral staircase.

His back pants pocket had an egg yolk stain as yellow as a buttercup in a field of manure.

* * *

A.N. Hello my lovelies! Longest chapter to date, here, not that it probably looks it. I hope this chapter was to your liking. I want to reiterate that updates will be slowing down now for more reasons than I'd really like to get into. (One of which happens to be a faulty hard drive and/or operating system. Oh, joy.)

So… now that you're here, why not review? I promise not to call you Her-my-girl!


	11. So Long, Ron

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 11—So Long, Ron

Hermione felt as if she had a stomach ache almost every time her thoughts drifted in Ron's direction. The facts were these:

1) He and August were definitely hiding something from her. According to the bet she'd overheard, August was supposed to tell her because Ron had broken the egg, so now she was waiting for the other girl to spill.

2) She was now reasonably sure that the idea of someday being married to Ron didn't give her the thrill it had in the sixth year before he'd started dating Lavender. In fact, it made her ill, hence the stomach ache.

3) Ron had become a professional Quidditch player on his favorite team. It was his dream job, so as his girlfriend, she should be happy for him. But Hermione was too practical for that. She wanted him to finish his education, not be gone for chunks of the rest of the year.

There was also the question of who exactly had won that bet. Ron had said he'd get a position and keep the egg from breaking. He'd done one but not the other. Would he be getting that favor or would he be forfeiting it? For all she knew, he could be using the favor to prevent August from telling her whatever it was.

The other thing that was bugging her was completely unrelated to Ron, and that was Malfoy. Every time she entered a room he was in, he'd look up at her for a moment, and first he'd look giddy and then he'd look nervous. She wasn't so sure she wanted to know.

Then there was also the matter of a certain set of fingers that had been pressed into her lips for well over a minute.

O

The effort of trying to beat Hermione Granger in her studies was starting to take its toll on Draco's sanity. It had taken Greengrass three tries before she'd been able to catch his attention during his free period on Tuesday.

"I think you've been spending too much time with the Gryffindors lately," she remarked, sitting down across from him in the library. "Don't you have something a little less common to be doing?"

"Less common than studying while at school?" he asked. "If you haven't noticed, you're here in the library too."

She wrinkled her nose. "So I am." She watched him for a long moment. "Tell me, Draco—"

"I didn't realize we were on a first name basis."

She waved her hand. "Surnames are for enemies and plebeians. We're neither." She flashed him a smile before frowning. "What are you staring at?"

"I'm trying to decide if you're flirting with me or if you have an even less palatable agenda on your mind."

"Tell me, Draco, shall I give you the evil eye now or later?" she asked, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Lady's choice," he responded, running his finger under a sentence in the book he was studying.

"I was going to ask if you'd be interested in accompanying me to Hogsmeade this weekend, but since you're so obviously opposed…."

Draco looked up at her, his left eyebrow raised. "You do realize I'm not allowed to leave the grounds?"

She pressed her index finger into her lips. "Oh, yes. Your little piece of jewelry. How these things do tend to slip the mind." She removed her wand from a pocket inside her robes. "Perhaps I could offer you some help?"

"Hmm, a trip to Hogsmeade with you and a risk of being sent to Azkaban for the rest of my life or a normal weekend spent here? Hmm… I believe your pulchritude isn't quite enough to tempt me. Oh, and pulchritude means—"

"I know what it means, Malfoy."

"Back to surnames, are we? Does that make me an enemy or a plebeian?"

"Quite possibly both." She flipped her hair over her shoulder. "Well, then. I think it's safe to say that you've lost your chance." With that, she spun around on her toe and marched off in the opposite direction.

Odd, Draco thought as he turned back to his books. He'd just turned down a date with a girl who was witty, good-looking, pureblooded, and Slytherin. She'd actually make a very good match for him. So why did he refuse her, other than the obvious illegal aspects entailed?

She was a little young for him, true.

And yet he found himself staring down at his right hand, where a few days ago, lip gloss residue had been left.

He couldn't say why that thought had stuck with him nor why the memory of the lips behind the lip gloss sent a tingle through his fingers.

He bit his own lip. Perhaps he merely didn't want to say.

He really should have taken Greengrass up on that offer, at least as a date on the grounds.

O

An entire week went by without Ron or August telling her anything, and Hermione began to wonder if she shouldn't just confront them. She, Ron, and Harry had gone to Hogsmeade to meet with Andromeda and Teddy. All she could think of was how Ron had failed his "baby" assignment and was thus unfit to watch a teaspoon, never mind an actual child.

In Monday's Good Grief class, Ron and August had been docked full points on the assignment, earning a T. August looked mildly annoyed, and she kept looking over at Hermione with a funny expression on her face, but that was it.

Another week went by, and Hermione was becoming rightfully agitated. By the end of October, Ron had been gone six whole days for Quidditch practice, and Harry had been gone two for an extended call-back. It was on one of these days with neither of the boys that Hermione found herself seated next to Ginny during an uneventful potions class—Candanver was snoring—and she decided to satisfy a question that had been niggling in her mind for quite some time.

"So Ginny," she said, keeping her voice down so that none of the Slytherins in the room, specifically Malfoy, would overhear, "Harry mentioned something to me awhile back, and I found it a little… odd."

Ginny looked up from the doodle she'd been making of Crookshanks on a broomstick, trying to catch the snitch the same way he normally tried to catch moths. "Oh?"

"Yeah. He said something about you," she paused, "er, wanting to get engaged?"

Ginny froze first and then snorted. "What! Where'd he get that idea?"

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief she hadn't known she'd been holding. "He said you told him your ring size."

"My…." Ginny slapped her hand against her forehead. "Didn't you all see the flyers they put on the notice-boards?"

"Flyers?"

"There was a flyer on the Gryffindor notice-board advertising Hogwarts House Crest rings, and I know it's a bit early for Christmas, but I was giving Harry a little hint. I thought he'd know what I was talking about!" Ginny looked caught halfway between hysterics and hysteria.

"Well, that's a relief. I thought it was a little premature on your part," Hermione added, giggling.

"No kidding." Ginny rubbed her hand over her chin. "So all this time Harry's been thinking that I want to… oy. Someday, yes, but not yet!" Hermione smiled and stirred her potion twice counterclockwise. "So," Ginny continued slowly, "how about you and Ron?"

Hermione froze, hand perched at the end or her spoon. "What about me and Ron?"

Ginny shrugged. "I dunno, really. It just seems like the two of you have, erm, cooled off? Since term started?"

"Cooled off?" she repeated, going back to her potion.

"Er, yeah. You haven't been especially lovey-dovey lately, and ever since Ron got that position…."

Hermione pushed a chunk of hair behind her ear and bit her lip. "I know."

"Oh?" Ginny gently prodded.

Hermione sighed. "I guess, maybe, I'm getting a little doubtful about the endurance of our relationship."

"How so?"

"Well, for example, lately, every time someone mentions anything about marriage or the future, I've been getting just a tad… anxious… in regards to Ron," she added.

"So," Ginny reasoned, "when I say that I do someday want to be married to Harry, you would say about Ron…?"

"That…." Hermione stopped. "Please don't hate me for this, but I'd say that I'd rather not. I wish I did. But—"

"But you just don't." Ginny nodded, looking wistfully at the Amortentia potion Hermione'd started. "Perfectly normal. Hopefully it's just a phase, though."

"It would definitely be nice if it is." Hermione felt herself tense, feeling someone's eyes on her. Her first instinct was that it would be August, but Ernie Macmillan had been the only Hufflepuff in their year who'd taken Advanced Potions. The two Hufflepuffs remaining were both from Ginny's year, and they didn't look as if they'd been having a heartfelt chat with August that could tell Hermione whatever was being kept secret.

Which led her eyes to Malfoy. Sure enough, his chair was turned partly to the side, so he had an easy view of the back of the room as he worked on his potion. Their eyes met, but this time there was resolve written in his. He checked the clock, gave his potion three strokes with his spoon, and came over to sit on the edge of their table.

"Granger, Mini-Weasley," he greeted, pushing a dragon scale out of his way.

"Malfoy," Ginny responded, "what gives us the _pleasure_ of your company, hmm?"

"Ah, it's nice to know you have such good taste," he said, sending Ginny a fake smile. "But I'm here in this relative privacy," he sent a glare to the rest of the class, who literally squeaked and turned away, "to spread a little gossip. Or would it be gossip if it's true?"

Hermione added a newt tail to her own potion, not meeting his eye. "What are you on about?"

Malfoy flashed a smirk at her, and there, for a brief second, was that hint of nervousness. "I know a secret. A secret involving one Mr. Ronald Weasley and one Miss August Moon. Care to hear it?"

Hermione blinked. "I—"

"Now don't let that over-sized conscience of yours get in the way, Granger. I've only got two minutes and forty-three seconds before I need to get back to my potion, so you better make up your mind."

Hermione glared at him. "And how am I supposed to know that you're telling the truth, hmm?"

He winked at her, actually winked at her, and strode across the room to the supply cabinet, returning with a vial of Veritaserum. "Ol' Candanver hasn't learned the value of locking up his stores. Though I must say, I'd rather not have to resort to this. I mean, think of all the nasty things you could have me confess. I'd much rather just tell you."

Hermione shook her head. "We're not using that. We could get into serious trouble if anyone found out, and with a room full of witnesses, that's rather likely." She sighed. "Just tell me, would you?"

He smiled. "As you wish. Ahem, remember when I was stopped on the stairs a few weeks back and you bumped into me?"

"Yes." How couldn't she remember?

"Well, I'd been listening to a certain conversation, which revealed a certain truth." His smile grew wider. "Your dear boyfriend 'accidentally' kissed that itsy-bitsy Hufflepuff."

Hermione gasped and Ginny covered her mouth with her hand. "Accidentally? How does anyone accidentally kiss someone? I mean, have you seen them? They aren't about to knock heads," Hermione interjected.

Malfoy shook his head. "They said something about chasing after a mongoose and the Weasel tripping over his feet and landing on her. I'd call it a load of tosh. They probably did it on purpose and just don't want to admit it." He glanced at the clock again.

"So," Hermione was still grappling to understand it all, "so Ron accidentally cheated on me?"

"Says Malfoy," Ginny grumbled.

"I give you my word as someone with very good hearing. That's what they said, or my name isn't Draco."

"Not like I call you that anyway," Ginny replied, frowning.

"So I say you break up with the great lout," Malfoy suggested, still smiling.

Hermione was half-trying to clear her head and half-trying to keep up with her potion. She nodded, and Ginny grabbed her arm. "What? No!"

Malfoy snorted. "So soon to forget what she confessed to you a few minutes ago? She hasn't been feeling close to him lately and can't see a future between them, and now he's gone and cheated on her with someone who isn't even very good-looking and lied about it as well. Go for it, Granger. I know it'd make me sleep better at night."

"Sleep better?" Ginny demanded. "Malfoy, if you can't sleep because you're worried about _Hermione,_ then it sounds like you're in love with her."

Malfoy rolled his eyes, though his features went slightly rigid. "I meant because I sleep in the same room as your dear brother. I'd sleep through his moans much better than through his, '_Oh, do you think Hermione would like to go to Puddifoot's with me and snog over a spot of tea? Do you? Do you?'_" He made a face of disgust.

"You realize you actually used her name?" Ginny pointed out, looking very much annoyed.

"Only for the sake of recreating an old scenario." He looked at Hermione, who was still biting her lip. "Well, what do you say, Granger?"

She didn't look at him, and instead she looked at Ginny. "I don't think I have much choice," she said quietly, her voice a little strained. "There are just too many factors. I—" Her vision was clouding up, and Malfoy jumped off the table as she burst into tears.

"Well," he said, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "That's my cue to leave. Ladies." He bowed slightly and went back to his potion.

Ginny glared at his back before turning to Hermione and offering up her shoulder, but Hermione wiped at her eyes, set her face, and continued with brewing her potion, twin streaks of salt water running down her chin. One drip nearly fell in her cauldron.

O

"Ron?" It was two in the morning, and Hermione had been waiting up in the Common Room. She'd felt so secure in her resolve up until the point when everyone else had gone to bed, and she'd been left alone with her thoughts.

Every second of that afternoon, Ginny had been at her side, trying to change her mind. When she'd asked if she loved him, Hermione hadn't been able to answer. Of course she loved him. Ron had been one of her best friends for almost exactly seven years now.

Last year, she'd known she loved him and had waited through his idiocy for him to return to the tent. She'd been rightfully angry, of course.

On that last day, Ron had gone down into the Chamber with her, just below where she sat now, and he'd had her use a basilisk fang to destroy the cup. The cup had tested her then, made her choose between Ron and everything else she'd ever loved, including the entire Hogwarts library, and Ron had won.

Two years ago, she'd sat in the Potions classroom and inhaled a different Amortentia potion. Three scents had combined for her: cut grass, parchment, and Ron's hair.

Of course she loved him.

She would always love Ronald Bilius Weasley. She just wasn't sure if it was really that kind of love. She was attracted to him, but at the same time, she was a little repulsed.

He did things sometimes, these stupid, idiotic things that he just didn't think through. Ron didn't think, and thinking was her very definition. He'd hurt her too many times to remember, and this thing with August felt like the last domino to fall over.

"Hey," he mumbled sleepily. Harry shuffled past him and down the stairs. "What're you doing up?"

Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "We need to talk."

He yawned. "Can't it wait?"

She shook her head. "What happened between you and August?"

Ron froze mid-yawn. "What?"

"You and August. I know you're keeping something from me. I heard… I heard that you kissed her." Her voice dropped at the end.

"Who," he sounded nervous, "who told you that?"

"Never mind. Just, please, tell me, Ron."

He collapsed onto the sofa beside her. "She told you, didn't she?" he grumbled. "Great. Just great."

"No. So it's true then?" Was it normal to feel relieved to know your boyfriend had cheated on you? She doubted it.

"It was an accident. I was running and I tripped and she was standing in front of me, and I just kind of pushed her over. Our lips touching was just a fluke. Trust me, I'd never hurt you," he said, reaching out to clasp her hand.

"But you lied about it. You kept it a secret. That hurts, Ron." Her voice was breaking. "Why did you keep it a secret?"

"I dunno!" he growled. "I panicked. I didn't want you to think it was Lavender all over again, and I—"

"What?"

"And I felt guilty." He shifted on the cushion, and his hand felt sweaty in her own.

"How long?"

"Huh?" he asked, distractedly playing with his sleeve.

"How long did you kiss? One second? Two? Please, Ron. Just tell me."

He hesitated. "'Bout a minute," he mumbled, almost incoherently.

She felt something near her heart snap, and the tears started slipping from her eyes. "You fancy her?"

"No! I just… I dunno. We're always fighting, and it just felt good to win for once, which probably doesn't make sense or anything, and, ugh, I dunno." He rubbed at his forehead. "Can we please discuss this in the morning?"

"W-why didn't she tell me? I know about your bet. You broke the egg. Why didn't she—"

"How should I know? We decided neither of us got that favor; maybe she called that off, too. Ugh, I'm so tired. I'm exhausted, and I got hit by two bludgers." He pointed to a mound of purple bruising below the orange sleeves of his Quidditch robes.

"I'm sorry." She gave his hand a squeeze before extracting her own. "I think we should go back to just being friends."

He opened his mouth, gaping like a sleep-deprived fish. "What? Do you have any idea how long it took me to get you? Hermione—"

"Get me? Ron, you make me sound like an object."

"You know I don't mean…."

"I've been thinking about this for awhile," she confessed, and his mouth snapped closed. "It's not just this, okay? It's a few things. And I, I just need to be a little selfish right now. I want to break up."

"No!" Ron slammed his fist down on his knee before grabbing her and smashing his lips to hers. When he let go, the tears were streaming down her face again.

"I'm so sorry, Ron." She stood and went down the spiral staircase and into the girls' dormitory, collapsing on her bed. She didn't fall asleep until five in the morning.

O

A.N.: Hello! So apparently I don't like making people break up very much. It was surprisingly difficult for me to get Hermione resolved to do that. What did you think, everybody? Thank you all for the lovely reviews! (Also, if you haven't noticed, I'm switching to O's as section breaks. So much easier that way.)


	12. Inky Blobs

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 12—Inky Blobs

Hermione's eyes were puffy by the time she left the dormitory in the morning. Ron was sitting in the common room with two cups of coffee, waiting for her. "Here," he said, offering one to her.

She couldn't meet his eye, but she accepted the cup and sat down on one of the large chairs. "Thanks."

He let go of a long, rattling breath. "I'm so confused. I thought we were doing okay. I barely slept last night," he added, slouching into the back of the sofa.

"Neither did I." She took a sip. He'd added too much cream and sugar, and she thought for a moment that he might have given her his by accident, but from the looks of it, his was just as pale.

"Look," he said, setting his cup on the floor in front of him. "I don't think you're making the right decision. So… so I'm going to make a request."

"And what's that?" she asked. Her voice was hoarse.

"Keep wearing my bracelet. To remind you of me." He looked up at her then, pleading with her through his eyes. "I haven't said it enough, I know, but, Hermione—I love you. I don't want to lose you."

She nodded. "I love you, too, Ron. I'm just not sure if I love you in the right way."

"I'm really sorry about what happened," he added. "Just, please, don't give up on me?" He stood and strode out of the room, and Hermione glanced down first at his abandoned cup of coffee and then at the gleaming silver ermine on her wrist. Weasel, she corrected. An ermine was a type of weasel.

There were footfalls on the stairs, and she didn't bother trying to hide her swollen eyes. A blond head appeared, and Malfoy paused to look at her before he left the common room.

The charm also looked like a ferret.

O

Ginny was frowning from her seat when Hermione finally came down to breakfast. Ron wasn't there. He must have come down earlier to get the coffee. "So?" she asked.

Hermione nodded as she filled her plate. Today was going to be awkward. That much was apparent.

Harry was stifling a yawn. "Why's everyone so tense?" he asked, slouching so his head went into his hand.

Ginny sent Hermione a glare. "Tell him."

Hermione bit her lip before turning to Harry. He hated it when she and Ron fought, and this was, well, more than just a fight. "R-ron," her voice cracked, "and I are finished," she mumbled.

Harry sat up straighter. "You… what? You ended it? Why?"

She squirmed. "Well…."

"Ron kissed that Moon girl," Ginny grumbled. "Or so says Malfoy, anyway."

"Ron confirmed it," Hermione mumbled. She pushed away her plate. She wasn't especially hungry after all. "Plus, there are some other issues that made up my mind," she added for Harry's benefit.

Harry looked downright confused. "But he can't stand August. Why would he…?"

"I don't know, Harry. The point is that he did." This entire conversation was making her feel ill. "Do you think maybe we could change the subject? Er, Ginny, why don't you tell Harry what you told me about those Hogwarts crest rings?"

"Oh, right." Ginny reached into her bag and pulled out a flyer, scooting it closer to Harry. "You know my ring-size," she added with a wink.

The relief on Harry's face was almost tangible. "Christmas on your mind?" he asked. Ginny nodded, pleased about clearing up the confusion. "Good." He smiled at the red-head, who actually tugged him forward and kissed him.

Hermione, meanwhile, blushed and turned away. There was something very uncomfortable about watching people kissing, especially when those people are two of your good friends. She sneaked a peek over at the Hufflepuff table, where August was crammed between a First Year and a Seventh Year, both of whom were taller than her. She seemed oblivious enough to the Gryffindor table. Hannah sat across from her, chatting about something with animated hand gestures.

At the Ravenclaw table, Padma was currently talking to Flitwick, who had stopped alongside her. Granted, all Hermione could see from her position was his hat.

Dean sat down at the other end of the Gryffindor table, talking to this year's Quidditch coach, a gangly-looking Fifth Year.

That was six of eight Eighth Years accounted for. Ron, thankfully, was elsewhere, and number eight was Malfoy, who had his back turned to a very peeved Astoria Greengrass and was reading a book, which looked suspiciously like _Grieving for the Soul_.

There was a sound of smacking as Harry and Ginny came up for air, and Hermione turned back to them again. "So, Harry, any thoughts on whether you'll be the next Chuddley Cannons Seeker?" she asked, surprised at her own daring to bring up Quidditch. At least it was a distraction from the happy couple.

Harry opened his mouth and closed it again. "Um. Well, I, you know—your breaking things off with Ron, er." He stopped, looking horrified.

"Go on, Harry," she mumbled.

"Makes me feel caught in the middle," he finished.

"That's nothing unusual," Hermione said, somewhat guiltily.

"Er, right." Harry was fiddling with his fork. "Well, see, if I join that means Ron'll be happy, but you and Gin—"

"Will be left here alone," Hermione finished.

"But it'd also mean I wouldn't be able to finish the year. On the other hand, it'd be incredible to be a professional Seeker, but then again, it's the," he coughed, "Cannons. But that doesn't mean it wouldn't be great if Ron and I got them into shape," he added with an embarrassed smile.

"And then there's McGonagall's offer," Hermione prompted, the little twinge of guilt awake inside of her.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, "and then there's that." He groaned, and Ginny patted his back.

"When is the final decision about the Seeker position made?" This was from a nondescript Seventh Year named Eldric Moore, whom none of them had realized had been listening in.

"November First," Harry answered, shrugging.

Hermione paused. "Harry, you do realize today's Halloween?"

"Yeah, so?"

She almost wanted to laugh. "Therefore, today is October Thirty-first; therefore, tomorrow is November First."

Harry looked as if he'd been bitten. "Do you ever think one month when it's really a different one? Oh, hang it all. I have to go make a decision." He stood, looking apologetically at Hermione. "I'd better go talk things over with Ron." With that, he slung his book bag over his shoulder and left.

Hermione's head slunk onto her arms. Talk things over, he'd said. What he'd meant had been console, and who's fault was that? Well, he did also have a decision to make, and she felt guilty hoping that Harry would decline the position.

O

The only thing Draco found interesting in the Halloween Feast—besides some unwittingly good pumpkin pasties—was the drama at the Gryffindor table. Weasley was clearly upset, and judging by the fact that Draco hadn't been beaten to a bloody pulp, no one had bothered mentioning his involvement in the spreading of certain important information.

And did Weasley ever look upset. The oaf was known widely for his appetite, which was similar to that of a mountain troll, and yet, currently, he wasn't eating so much as stabbing his mashed potatoes with his fork. It was quite the spectacle, if one knew to watch.

Unfortunately, with so few Eighth Years, there weren't near so many rabid Harry Potter and Co. gossipers. There was that one girl—what was it?—Romilda something? She was watching with rapt attention, evidently very caught up with this new state of affairs.

All in all, there was something most gratifying in watching Ron Weasley heartbroken and shaken, something that went much deeper than mere payback for stealing hair gel or silencing him in the dormitory or any of the other crimes that had been committed against Draco since the beginning of the year. No, this payback had its roots at the dawn of their first year at Hogwarts, and the multitude of reasons for hating Weasley had grown exponentially since then. Harry Potter might have been Draco's first nemesis, but now there was no question that the Weasel had taken over that position with an uncouth and juvenile grace.

There was also something going round the rumor mill—and by rumor mill he meant overhearing Padma Patil speaking to Dean Thomas—that there was a good chance that Potter wouldn't be taking the "Cuddly Cannons" seeker position.

Maybe that would push the Weasel over the edge and he'd drop out of school, like his last two siblings before him.

And, by the way, didn't one of the twins die? Draco wasn't sure, but it seemed as if he'd heard something of that nature. He himself had been rather preoccupied by his own affairs at the time.

The thought nearly, but not quite, made him feel a little sorry for the Weasley clan. It wasn't as if they'd offered him sympathy after what happened to his father.

"Malfoy?" It was Greengrass again.

"Yes, your Grassiness?" he asked, turning and resting his head in one hand, propped up by his elbow.

"I was just wondering," she said, flipping her nose into the air, "just what it is you're finding so very amusing over at the Gryffindoorknob table."

"Gryffindoorknob?" he repeated, trying and failing to hide a smirk. "If you must know, the Weasel and the Bookworm broke things off last night."

"Weasley and Granger?"

He nodded. "Lovebirds no more."

She opened her mouth. "Oh, no, please, don't tell me _that's_ it."

"What's what?" he asked, turning to look at the destruction of the mashed potatoes a few tables over.

"The reason you turned me down," she explained in a very slow and accusing tone. "You bloody fancy that Gryffindor frizz-head!" This last part was said loud enough for several people to turn.

"What?" he asked. "Have you been smoking any of that grass in your name?" he sputtered.

She sniffed. "Smoking? Malfoy, no one under the age of seventy smokes unless they want to commit a serious faux pas. You know that."

He rolled his eyes at her. "What are you on about, anyway? Me like Granger? You can't be serious."

"Well," she said, "let's see." She pointed to one finger. "You turned me down for no better reason than the illegalities of your going to Hogsmeade." She pointed to another finger. "You're gloating over their split." She pointed to a third. "And you have been spending an awful lot of time with her. I heard she's your partner for that inane class of Amorell's.

"So, Malfoy, you tell me. What are your feelings for the little _Grief_findor?"

His eyebrows lowered. "Nothing even close to what you're suggesting, little girl."

"Oh, no?" she asked. "Well, I've got my eye on you. Know that," she warned.

Draco scowled, and across the room, a glint of something caught his eye. It was, oddly enough, coming from a crystal ball, clutched greedily in the hands of Professor Sybil Trelawney, hack prophesier extraordinaire. The bespectacled woman was hurrying towards the staff table, and she sat down beside Professor Amorell as if the two biddies were the best of mates.

Draco had gone through a long list of least favorite teachers, beginning with Professor Lockhart, extending through Professors Lupin and Moody—him especially—moving onto Professor Slughorn, who, for a Slytherin, had been surprisingly uninterested in him, and settling on Professors McGonagall and Hagrid, for lack of the others' presence. Amorell and Trelawney were far, far higher than any of their predecessors on that list—except Moody, that ferret-casting eye-rover.

Although he'd never actually had a class with Trelawney, she'd made the list. Just two months ago on the first day of class, when he'd been suffered to be dragged around, blinded, stumbling into things with a Weasley-like bumbling quality, that bug-eyed teacher had dared make that prophesy.

Even Granger didn't like her, and that had to say something more negative about the woman than her lack of fashion-sense alone would confirm.

That prophesy. _Before this year ends, you and Mr. Malfoy here will discover what the heart seeks but the mind avoids._ And what, pray tell, was that supposed to mean? Precisely what that snit Greengrass had just accused him of, that's what. His heart did certainly _not_ seek out Hermione Mudblood Granger, even if his mind did avoid it.

Oh, Merlin, he did not just think that.

Trelawney was deeply immersed in a whispering match with Amorell, showing her whatever was hidden within the depths of the crystal. It all just looked a milky smear from where he was seated, but evidently, they found it incredibly interesting. A floating Jack-o-Lantern drifted over their heads, knocking Trelawney's hat off, and in the brief scramble under the table for it, his view of the crystal cleared, revealing two inky black blobs shrouded in darkness. It might have looked like something a little more substantial if he weren't ten meters or so away.

Why did he have a bad feeling that one of those blobs was him?

O

Back in the Common Room, Hermione sat with Harry and, to her utmost discomfort, Ron. They weren't meeting one another's eyes. Ron, apparently, was finding the pattern in the rug very intriguing, and Hermione was busy attempting to read her Charms book. She couldn't focus.

"Right," Harry said, clearing his throat, "so I've made up my mind."

Hermione, with a gratefulness she'd seldom felt when being interrupted in her reading, put her bookmark in and looked up. From her peripheral vision, Ron had looked up too. Harry shifted, looking uncomfortable. "Go on," Hermione murmured.

It was as if they'd unwittingly asked him to choose between them, and Hermione could tell, even without looking, that Ron was going into one of those moods he got when the three of them fought. Irritable and quick to blame.

"Well," Harry continued, "if they do pick me for the team—"

"You're Harry Potter. It's a when, not an if," Ron interrupted firmly.

"Er, right. When they pick me." He made a funny face at that, but no one was laughing. Harry had some stupid luck that way. The idea of him not being picked was almost ludicrous. Even if he weren't a good Seeker, he'd still draw crowds to games and get the team publicity. He turned to look at Hermione. "I know what you want, but," he sighed, "this is something I'm good at. There's not a whole lot for me that comes naturally. Stuff that's just me doing something I'm good at instead of something I've been destined to do. Hermione, you're good with your books. If someone offered you the chance to be a professional… something-or-other involving books, you'd take it." Hermione felt her heart sinking, knowing what was coming next.

"I'm pretty sure I'm going to take the position, if only for a game or two."

"But, Harry," she said, finding her voice cracking again, "what about the Defense Against the Dark Arts position? You're a natural at that, too."

He shrugged weakly. "It's a cursed position. It might open up again later." With his luck, it probably would.

Ron was beaming. That was perhaps the only positive Hermione could see in the situation. He'd have been devastated if Harry had chosen to stay, especially when she had just left him in the quick. "Glad to have you on the team," he said, reaching out and shaking Harry's hand.

And that was the both of them. Both of her best friends were leaving her for professional Quidditch positions on what was arguably the worst team in the last century, or so she'd gathered when she'd finally read a book on Quidditch just to know what the fuss was over. They'd both be missing for gaps throughout the year, and that was assuming they didn't drop out of school.

And worst, to her, at least, was that Harry had been offered her dream job and turned it down. He could have been a Hogwarts professor. That kind of was the professional something-or-other involving books that she'd dreamt about.

Ron was the one who was supposed to be constantly jealous of Harry, not her.

O

Breakfast the next morning brought the owls, and Ron sat with his arm across Harry's shoulders, a gigantic grin on his face. Hermione sat on the other side of Ginny, scowling into her black coffee. Ginny seemed partway thrilled and partway disgusted. "Doesn't he know this is how you lose your girlfriend?" she whispered to Hermione. "Granted, it's not like you're into Quidditch like I am, so it's different."

A creamy owl dappled with gray and tan spots landed in the space between Harry's bowl of hot cereal and a fruit platter.

Harry's hand hovered over the envelope for a moment, and Ron was quick to shove a piece of bacon at the owl. "Go on," he urged. "Open it."

Harry let out an anxious breath and tugged the parchment out. "Dear Mr. Potter," he read in his letter-from-the-Order voice, "I regret to…." His voice trailed off, and he was so stunned he actually smirked. "I didn't make it."

"You…." Ron jerked the letter out of his hand. "Blimey."

Hermione felt the tension in her shoulders loosen, and a tiny smile lit her face. Somehow, Harry had managed not to let either of them down by simply being let down himself. Ginny looked equally relieved. "Well," Hermione said, trying not to sound too chipper, "I guess this is for the best. After all, you're the Deputy Head Boy. You have a duty to the school to uphold."

"Some duty," Harry muttered, still looking shocked. "I think I docked points from two Slytherins total so far."

Ron bit his lip. "They actually turned down Harry Potter. I can hardly believe it." Was it her imagination, or did Ron look a tad proud over the fact that he'd been chosen and Harry hadn't? It was Prefect Badges all over again.

O

A.N.: I'm addicted to author's notes. That is all.


	13. Bow to Your Partner

8 & 8th—Chapter 13—Bow to Your Partner

Hermione found herself staring blankly as Harry and Ginny snuggled together in the Gryffindor Common Room, occasionally sharing a kiss. She was used to their affection for one another, but usually she'd have Ron around to distract herself from it. Via conversation, of course.

As it was, she felt like a third wheel and quietly left to go patrol the halls. Ginny had been doing an adequate job as Head Girl, but every once in awhile, Hermione itched for the slight upgrade in status from Deputy Head Girl to normal Head Girl. She could dock points and award detentions, but all of that was optional. It was nice to have a badge and a position, but there was an air of the unofficial about it.

On the bright side, it did provide her the extra time for her schoolwork and studying that Prefect Meetings and patrol would have robbed her of, and goodness knew she needed to study. NEWTs were in May, giving her a mere six and a half months to prepare.

In classes, she and Malfoy were neck and neck. He'd at least slowed down his arm-raising a bit. She had an idea that he'd strained his own shoulder from it.

Wandering down a corridor, she stumbled into a group of Sixth Year Slytherins. They weren't doing anything against the rules, per se, but the way they stood there whispering was suspicious enough.

She was just about to slip by them when one girl stopped her. She was polishing her Prefects' badge with her thumb. "So it's you."

"Hello Astoria," Hermione said calmly, with just a faint hint of impatience.

The other girl smirked. "I'd congratulate you, but I don't think he's done anything yet."

"Congratulate?" Hermione had to raise her eyebrow at that. And who was this he? Ron?

"Oh, you'll see. He's denying it, but I'm sure he'll come around."

"Denying? I'm sorry, could you be a little more specific?"

Greengrass reached out, as if to pat Hermione's hand, but she froze and pulled it back. "Patience is the key to virtue. But who knows, maybe he'll come to his senses, remember who you are, and change his mind." She turned back to her group. "Come along."

They all sneered at her as they walked by. And so Hermione was left alone in the corridor, dumbstruck.

O

There was something a little strange about going to Good Grief class with someone missing. Because the majority of the activities they did were partner focused, August was left high and dry on that following Monday, due to Ron's busy Quidditch schedule.

"Miss Moon," Amorell said, and Hermione could tell August was hoping she'd be given the period as free time, "with Mr. Weasley gone, you'll be partnering with me." The other girl smiled politely despite the crow's feet of anxiety at the corners of her eyes.

"Professor?" Padma had raised her hand. "Why are all of the desks pushed back against the wall?"

Amorell leaned back against her own desk, shoving some of her blonde hair behind her ear. She slowly surveyed the room, her eyes twinkling at Harry and Hannah, August, Padma and Dean, and finally at Hermione and Malfoy. She seemed to linger on them, and her smile grew. "Today we'll be dancing."

Hermione honestly couldn't help it. She had to look at Malfoy to see his reaction to that. He had been leaning back in his seat with a blasé expression and his arms crossed, but he'd actually deflated some. He sent her a grimace, which she heartily returned.

"What kind of dance?" Padma pressed. She, at least, looked somewhat excited. Hermione wanted to add "and why?" to her query, but she bit her tongue.

"Today will be the traditional wizarding country dance. Next week—" everyone went slack-jawed, "will be something a little more modern. A little in-class dance party—freestyle." She beamed as if she were giving them a special treat they'd been begging her for for months.

Hermione's hand shot into the air. "Will that one be with our partners?" she asked.

Although Hermione knew full-well that Amorell was a witch anyway, she couldn't help but imagine her with green skin and warts, holding a burning broomstick out to a scarecrow. "Of course."

Hermione raised her hand again. "And _why_ are we dancing? What does that have to do with grief counseling, house unification, or tolerance?"

"Why, Miss Granger, I thought it would be obvious. Five points from Gryffindor. Now, girls on the left, boys on the right, please."

O

Draco snickered at the expression on his partner's face. It almost made up for being forced to dance with her. Almost. He stood stiffly at the right side of the room, purposely distancing himself from Potter and Thomas. Granger sneered at him. There was a scratchy trickle of music coming from one corner of the room, which Draco recognized as Alvin Modkin's Fourth Symphony.

He smirked at Granger, and her brown eyes flashed at him.

Amorell clasped her hands, grinning at them before stepping between Draco and Thomas. "Now, Miss Moon? A demonstration, perhaps?"

The Moon girl blinked. "Um…?"

"Very good. Now, first, girls take two steps forward. Come on, Miss Moon. There's a girl. Now, men take two steps back, like so." And Amorell stepped back.

"Professor?" Granger had her arm raised as far as it would go.

"Yes?"

"Professor," she bit her lip, "doesn't the original dance require apparition from one side of the room to the other? Wouldn't that be a bit dangerous?"

Amorell waved her hand in dismissal. "You may be thinking of a different dance. The only magic in this one is some sparks." Draco really didn't like the way she emphasized sparks.

"Moving on, girls then walk to the end of the aisle on their left and men to the end of the aisle on their left. Then girls step back, men step forward, and everyone repeats that until we're in our original positions, just shifted apart a bit. That's called the First Mab. Now," and she stepped back in her original position and waved Moon into place, "let's all try it, starting with you two." And of course she was pointing at them.

Draco's mother had once tried to enroll him in dance lessons, and this was precisely what he would have been learning to do, if it weren't for the fact that he'd thrown a temper tantrum and broken a five-hundred-year-old vase with both magic and kicking, screaming that that was sissy stuff for girls and babies. His mother had used reparo, of course, but the point had still been made.

Now, unfortunately, it looked like he didn't have much choice, unless he wanted his marks to suffer. And so, when Granger took two steps forward, he took two steps back, with only a frown marking his discontent. He took his position next to Potter, and Granger stepped back where she had been before. Amorell and Moon went again, followed by Patil and Thomas, and finally Potter and Abbot went, each getting squished into their respective side of the classroom.

"And now Mr. Malfoy and Miss Granger will each step forward. Now you're going to turn to face one another, bow," it took longer for them to bow to one another than anything else, "and then step forward to meet one another. Then the rest of us will repeat that. That's the Second Mab." With what was an incredibly disjointed grace, the rest of them finally ended up in two lines in their original positions, just squished together and facing a different wall.

Granger wasn't looking at him, and he couldn't say he especially wanted to look at her, either. They were scarcely a foot apart. He almost felt relief when Amorell deigned to put her hand on his shoulder and told him that he and Granger were to take a step back, crab walk to the other end of the two lines, and form an arch with their arms.

Almost relief. He still had been touched by Amorell, and though he and Granger had some space between them, they now had to keep their fingertips touching. The other couples—partners, he corrected, couples sounded too intimate—repeated their actions until they had all formed a long tunnel.

"Now, Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy will break off, join hands, and go through the tunnel together."

Amorell had been sent from the fieriest pits of the underworld, hadn't she?

Reluctantly, he held his hand out, and Granger just stared at it. "Professor, I really do have to obj—"

"Oh, come on!" With what was an entirely alien force within him, Draco grabbed her hand and pulled her through the human tunnel, Potter looking like he was having difficulty deciding between anger and laughter.

He'd been about to let go of her hand and wipe his own off against his robes, but she was staring at their hands again, and suddenly a different memory involving his hand sprung to his mind. His hand pressed into her mouth.

The most sickening wave of something went through him, like goosebumps and nausea and warmth, and he wondered if she were remembering the same thing.

Her hand wasn't really so disgusting as he would have preferred to have believed. There might have been a callus on her index fingertip, probably from turning pages, but otherwise her hand was completely soft, and warm, and… dare he think it, delicate.

He should not be thinking of Hermione Mudblood Granger's hand as delicate. Weak, yes, but delicate, no.

She seemed entirely transfixed, and the others were busy going through the human tunnel.

And so he did something entirely weird. He moved his thumb slightly to caress—tickle, he corrected—her palm. And her eyes snapped up to his. His thumb continued its circular motion as he watched her, and she bit her lip nervously.

Her lip. Why was he staring at her lip?

They were both snapped out of it as Amorell awarded them each five points for knowing to keep their hands held for the next part of the dance. Granger gave a tug, as if to pull away, but he wasn't done yet, and they apparently needed to hold hands and walk in a circle around the room together.

O

Hermione felt very odd. This was not how it had been when she'd dragged him around the school when he'd been blinded. This time they were actually holding hands, and Malfoy, the greatest git in the world, seemed to be finding some sick enjoyment in it. He was intentionally walking slowly, and his thumb was driving her insane. The ridges on it were slightly rough against her sensitive palm. By all accounts and means, it should have tickled.

But instead it was doing something entirely different to her. It sent the strangest little wave of tingles up her arm. And it was recalling to mind that time on the stairs and how his fingers had been pressed to her lips.

If she didn't know any better, she'd say that on some very surreal level of reality, Malfoy was flirting with her, and she was turning into a tingly pile of goo because of it.

They finished their circuit around the room, and he still hadn't let go. She wasn't sure she could stand it much longer. "Having fun?" she whispered.

He smirked. "Heaps." And he moved his thumb from her palm across her fingertips, the devil. "You've got a nice little hand here, Granger," he hissed, the smirk still in place.

The funny thing was that his smirk was reminding her of Astoria Greengrass, her own smirk, and her cryptic message.

And it clicked.

Oh, Merlin, she felt like she was about to vomit right then. She felt her hand go clammy in his, and he finally let go.

Greengrass hadn't been talking about Ron or anyone else who might have been on Hermione's okay list. She'd been talking about Malfoy. She'd been congratulating her because Malfoy had his eye on her, or something like that.

But it didn't make any sense. For years now, he'd gone on and on about how unattractive she was, not vice versa. And then there was her blood status. He wasn't supposed to overcome his prejudices against her blood status. It would be nice if he did, but was it even possible?

Unless he was just toying with her. A Slytherin like him was probably allowed to do that.

Out of the corner of her eye, she waited for him to wipe his hand against his robes, but he didn't. He was holding his hand loosely, fingers all apart, as if to preserve the muscle memory.

Maybe it wasn't too late to vomit.

Wouldn't it be nice if she sneezed on her hand? Then maybe he wouldn't want to hold it in the future.

Amorell went through several more circuits with them, but luckily Hermione was able to keep her hands to herself this time.

O

Well, Granger certainly seemed disturbed, in any case. Now that class was over, he found himself feeling oddly bashful, which wasn't exactly a normal emotion for him. He had no reason to be playing… well, not footsy. Handsy? With her.

Sweet Merlin, he was playing right into everyone else's trap.

Trelawney's idiotic prediction was swinging over his head like Damocles sword, and Greengrass's suggestion was an exact duplicate of it. Did that make it a double-edged sword?

He did not want to fall in love with Hermione Granger. He was not currently in love with Hermione Granger. He would not fall in love with Hermione Granger.

What he should do is go and wash his hands.

It occurred to him that it probably hadn't helped that he had played such an integral part in breaking the relationship between Granger and Weasley.

One week. In one week, he and Granger would be dancing again, and there would be no foolish folk dance to blame. Amorell had said it would be freestyle, which meant the possibility of slow-dancing, which meant being close to her. What if he liked it?

As much as he was loath to admit it, he had liked holding her hand. He had liked making that reaction go through her.

But he had always liked making her nervous, right? This wasn't the same.

O

Hermione felt weirdly jittery all throughout the rest of the day. In Candanver's class, she and Ginny and Harry worked on a potion together, and she somehow managed to keep herself from staring at the back of a certain blond head every five minutes. She got it cut down to every half hour instead.

"Ron should be back tonight," Ginny said, as she chopped a fig into twenty-seven equal parts.

It took Hermione a moment to answer. "Oh? Good." And it was good. She had said she wanted to remain friends, hadn't she?

"He should be staying until the weekend after next. He's got his first big game coming up. Mum and Dad are trying to get tickets. Maybe we can all go?"

"Of course, right, Hermione?" Harry asked, looking skeptically at her.

She smiled, perhaps unconvincingly. "Right. Unless he doesn't want me there," she added.

Harry waved his hand. "I don't think he'd have it any other way." She didn't answer, choosing to juice a shriveled bean. "Anyway, with him back, I'm sure August will be happy."

And that made her snap her head up. "What? What do you mean by that, Harry Potter?" she nearly shrieked.

Harry had to hold his hands up in surrender. "Just that I don't think she'll be wanting to partner with Amorell for dancing a second time, is all."

She blinked. "Oh. Of course not." Ron would be there during their little dance party, wouldn't he? That might prove awkward.

It had been thirty minutes, so she allowed herself a quick peek at the back of Malfoy's head. He seemed immersed in making his potion, though that didn't mean he hadn't been listening in. He was prone to that, after all.

He and Greengrass were probably just playing with her, like a cat with its prey. If he hadn't made that comment about her hand being nice and little, she might have been able to say he had a nervous twitch, and he hadn't meant to caress her at all.

But she could only delude herself so much.

O

A.N.: Well, this took me awhile to write. Sorry about that, ladies and gents(?). I did warn you that updates are slowing down over the summer. I've got a lot of other things I should be doing instead.

This chapter can be blamed on all of the square-dancing I had to do in P.E. in third, seventh, eighth, and ninth grade. This dance was completely made up, though I had Pride and Prejudice in mind.


	14. Easier Said than Done, Mum

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 14—Easier Said than Done, Mum

Harry arrived in the Great Hall a few mornings later looking both annoyed and poorly groomed. "He's still in there," he grumbled, sitting down next to Ron.

Ron shrugged. "I finally just went to a different toilet. Wonder what's taking him so long."

Dean yawned. "I got my shower, but I had to get up at the crack of dawn."

Hermione's sleep-logged brain had already done the necessary calculations to deduce that Malfoy had been in their loo for far longer than any of his roommates would prefer. That was just as well. She'd really rather he stayed away from her for as long as possible.

O

Draco was having a crisis. Well, perhaps that was putting it too strongly.

His tube of hair gel was empty. He couldn't blame it on Weasley this time because he'd been rationing the remnants for weeks now, but he'd finally reached the end. Usually he would have either picked some up at Hogsmeade or had his mother owl him some, but since neither of them were allowed in public, his options were severely limited.

It was a Hogsmeade weekend for Third through Seventh Years. The Eighth Years, with the exclusion of his own personage, of course, were allowed to visit the village whenever they wished.

So unless he wanted to waste unnecessary energy ordering a catalogue to order his hair product, he had better find someone to simply pick some up for him today.

He fixed his hair as best as he could before venturing into the hallways. He passed by a First Year Ravenclaw and a Second Year Gryffindor and finally caught up to a Third Year Slytherin.

"Hey, you!"

The kid had one of those faces, like a chicken with acne. "Yeah?"

"I've got a proposal for you."

Chicken-Head had the indecency to look bored. "What?"

Draco reached into his bag and brought out a piece of parchment and a quill to scribble a note. "Go into Hogsmeade and get me this."

The kid raised his eyebrow—not very well, Draco noted—and turned to walk away.

"Hey!"

"What, Malfoy? You going to threaten me with your wandless self? Balderdash. I've got the wand here, so scram, will you?"

Draco blinked. "Excuse me?"

The younger boy smirked and did a simple but annoying spell that tied Draco's shoelaces together, then walked away, wand twirling like a baton.

It could have been worse. It really could have. At least this was a spell he could undo without needing a wand. He backed himself up as suavely as possible—which was difficult, all things considered—and bent over in an alcove to untie the knot.

So apparently he couldn't just bully a younger year into doing his bidding. Bribery might be an option, but parting ways with his lovely galleons was not exactly his preferred method of getting things done. He might need those galleons later, especially considering his current inability to visit Gringotts and make a withdrawal.

What he needed was someone he could trust, but he was sorely lacking in the friends department as of late.

There was the possibility that Astoria Greengrass might help him, but that prospect seemed doubtful. She'd been awfully touchy ever since he turned her down last Hogsmeade Weekend, and he'd prefer that she didn't decide to spread the conclusion she'd made about himself and Granger.

Granger. When it came down to it, she was really the only one he could think of who might be convinced to put one more item on her shopping list without the necessity of bribery, blackmail, or threats.

But asking her would lead to all sorts of unnecessary assumptions on her part.

He'd been avoiding her since Monday. His idiotic decision to do whatever it was he'd done with his thumb had come back to bite him in a rather painful area.

He did not, by any means, fancy her, think she was cute, or any of those other flowery, ridiculous things that might spell doom in pink and red hearts.

There was absolutely no stock in the rush of hormones he felt when looking in her frizzy-headed direction.

It would be foolish to ask her to buy him his hair gel, and so he didn't.

O

Hermione felt incredibly uncomfortable as she made the trek to Amorell's classroom on Monday, and it wasn't made any better by the fact that Ron was a few steps ahead of her or that Malfoy had seemingly abandoned his hair gel after eight years of near-continual use.

"Dancing? We're dancing?" Ron asked, looking at Harry for confirmation.

Harry shrugged. "You're just lucky you missed last week's lesson. Hermione looked like she was going to die." He turned around to wink at her, but she felt too queasy to smile back.

Ron lifted his hands to rest behind his head. "Why's that?"

"We were doing a traditional wizarding country dance, and Hermione," he snorted, "had to hold hands with Malfoy."

Ron burst into laughter, completely unsympathetic to Hermione's plight. "Hope you didn't contract anything! Ferret might give you rabies."

She didn't bother telling him that rabies couldn't be contracted through hand-holding. Biting, yes, and in rare cases through kissing, but that really didn't need to be touched upon, she decided.

Ron's laughter died down. "I s'pose this means I'll have to dance with August?" His nose wrinkled up, and he turned his head away from Hermione, blushing slightly.

The git.

They were the first ones in the classroom, though it looked as if Amorell had already made her preparations. The desks were pushed back against the walls, and two streamers in gold and blue criss-crossed from opposite corners. All that was missing was a punch table and a disco ball.

Dean showed up next, wearing a funny-looking weed with a big peach flower pinned to his button-hole. "Luna told me to wear it to 'ward off Padma's advances.'" He rolled his eyes. "Smells like curdled milk."

"Hmm, might work, then," Harry replied, smiling slightly.

Hermione sat down to wait, all the while feeling queasier and queasier, and tried to focus her mind on other things, like Luna's steadfast inaccuracy.

Malfoy was the last to arrive, just barely scraping himself in after Amorell. The psychotic professor was wearing a muggle outfit that consisted of bell bottoms, platform shoes, and a large Christmas jumper.

Amorell, for once, didn't say anything but merely hustled off to the corner to turn on the phonograph. An unfamiliar wizard rock song began, and if the look on Hannah's face was anything to go by, it wasn't exactly a popular one.

"You transfigured my heart, you wily witch. Wilhelmina, you made it a stone! Ba-da-dum-bum-bum!" was followed by a series of odd popping sounds and a chorus that was so fast, she wasn't actually sure it had lyrics or not.

"Well, go on," Amorell said after everyone just stood there like so many wallflowers.

Dean and Padma began dancing, though she wore a pinched-up expression that suggested that the weed was working, though it was entirely unnecessary. Padma, Hermione had learned, had sworn off boys ever since Parvati's wedding.

Harry and Hannah were dancing awkwardly with a good two feet between them, fingertips grazing one another's shoulders and making polite small chat.

Ron and August weren't touching at all, but it couldn't be said that they weren't dancing either.

Which left Hermione sitting sulkily on the floor while Malfoy moved toward her at the approximate speed of a sloth. "Well?" he said at length, when he was finally within proximity of her.

She groaned. There wasn't really any use fighting it. If her marks depended upon dancing with him, then so be it. He made no move to offer her a hand, not that he would, so she hoisted herself up and dusted her palms off on her skirt before facing her doom.

The song ended with a scratchy lilt like bees and crickets tumbling around in a dryer, and a new one began. This one was marginally better in regards to euphony, but it was worse in a much different regard. It was a slow song—requiring a slow dance.

A glaring contest ensued.

It was a funny thing, his hair. For so many years, the gel had seemed to parallel his attitude: rigid. And with the way it had previously been so slicked backwards into straight, unmoving strands, it had emphasized his chin, as she had earlier figured out when Ron had done his thievery.

The lack of gel made him look softer, a little more human and a little less like a marble statue.

A hand descended on her shoulder.

O

Draco looked up into the cheery face of Professor Amorell and tugged his shoulder out of her manicured grip. Granger looked as if she wanted to do the exact same. "Is there a problem? The music started," she checked her watch, "three and a half minutes ago, and the two of you haven't shimmied or boogied or jived or done anything resembling a chicken. Something wrong?"

He'd pay Granger one-hundred galleons on the spot to claim to have a sprained ankle, and for the life of him he wished she would.

And then a miracle occurred.

"I… don't feel very well, Professor. I think I need to sit down a bit," Granger said. He could tell she was grappling for an excuse, but she did look slightly green around the gills. He wondered if one of those Weasley candies was to blame.

He found himself speaking without any real intention to do so. "I'll accompany her to the Hospital Wing, if you'd like, Professor Amorell." Had he just volunteered for that? He'd gone mental for certain.

Amorell's smile stretched to a dangerous degree. "Very well. I suppose it's not as if the two of you won't be dancing together soon enough, as it is."

Draco had to stop and frown, and Granger's face twisted into an expression of puzzlement—or nausea, either one. "What do you mean?" he asked, not bothering to sound polite.

"Why, at your wedding, of course." There wasn't so much as a flinch in her demeanor to suggest that what she'd just said might be ridiculous.

Granger actually covered her mouth, whether in horror or the suppression of a gag reflex. "What?" she squeaked, sounding terrifically aghast.

"Where'd you pick up that load of," he used a word that would ordinarily have earned him a detention.

Amorell looked puzzled. "You mean you're not betrothed?"

The laugh that escaped his mouth was anything but mirthful. "My family? Have me betrothed? To her? Are you _insane_?" Well, he already knew the answer to that one.

"I guess I must have simply misunderstood Sybil's meaning, then."

"Wait!" The expression on Granger's face had changed to something more akin to anger, and she spoke slowly, as if to penetrate a very thick skull. "Just what did Professor Trelawney say?"

Amorell sat down on one of the desks that had been pushed against the wall. "She said that you were going to be married. And I presumed that because the two of you don't exactly get along, it must have been someone else's idea." She paused. "Your children would be utterly adorable, you know."

No, he couldn't say he did know. This entire year had gotten out of hand, as if there were some massive plot to get the two of them together.

He was just about to ask what it was he'd caught sight of in the crystal before, when Granger vomited.

Amorell looked alarmed. "Take her to the Hospital Wing at once, if you would, Mr. Malfoy."

Well, it did sound more tempting than standing there next to a puddle of sick, listening to outdated music. They left the room, Granger still looking a violent shade of puce, and headed in the general direction of the Hospital Wing. It occurred to him that he really should make some kind of remark about keeping her infected self far away from him, but he didn't. Instead, a very different sentence tumbled from his mouth. "You all right, then?"

"Probably just nerves and utter disgust," she grumbled. "No offense," she added, stealing a quick glance in his direction.

"None taken." The slightest twitch of a smile threatened to spark into life on his face, but he fought it back. They were quiet for a long moment.

It was strange to have anything like a companionable silence between them, but that was the least of his worries.

The color was gradually returning to the girl's face, though she was worrying at her lip. "Look—I." She stopped. "Whatever happened last week cannot be repeated; is that clear?"

"Crystal." Which was suddenly an ironic phrase considering the cloudiness of crystal balls.

"But"—and he was surprised when she blushed—"it's not you, exactly. I just can't let that, that _cow_ win."

"Duly noted."

Madame Pomfrey went about her usual line of questioning while Draco stood over by the door, pretending he had not just accompanied Hermione Granger here, like a good citizen, or, worse, a Gryffindor.

Granger hopped down from the examination table and was given a small vial. She thanked the nurse before heading toward the exit, which Draco was quick to make use of. "She says it was probably a combination of nerves and an allergic reaction to that stink weed Dean was wearing," she volunteered, heading in what Draco was alarmed to realize was the direction of their classroom.

"Not carrying Weasley's love child, then?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "I should say not."

Why that relieved him… well, it probably didn't just have to do with his objection to the existence of yet another Weasley in the world.

He didn't bother pointing out that they could easily skip the entire class altogether without being found out, figuring that it would just fall on deaf ears anyway. She didn't seem the type to skive without the Dark Lord looming first. He might convince her if he pointed out that there might be yet another slow song playing when they returned, but this way seemed slightly more interesting.

Outside the door to the classroom, Granger pulled the cork from the vial and drank it, face puckering slightly.

"That good, eh?"

"Ha ha," she replied, and she pushed past where he was resting against the door jamb and into the room.

There wasn't a terrifically large amount of class left, but there was certainly enough.

O

The song that was playing was just coming to an end, but it was Muggle, and Hermione recognized it almost immediately. "Love the One You're With," by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Wasn't that just peachy? she thought, looking over the three couples.

Ron hadn't seemed to notice that she was back, and he and August had progressed from not touching at all to being almost fully pressed into one another. Dean and Padma had started doing a swing dance/tango. Harry and Hannah were in more or less the same position she'd left them, still looking polite, friendly, and calm.

This time a hand rested on her elbow just as another unrecognizable wizarding slow song began. It wasn't Amorell's, either. It was Malfoy's. "Let's get this over with," he mumbled.

Hermione took one last glance at Ron and August, who didn't look like they'd even notice if she and Malfoy were dancing the Bunny Hop. She turned back to the blond, and she nodded, placing her arms awkwardly over his shoulders, and his hands lightly grazed her sides.

O

Draco felt stiff and awkward at first, but he started to relax as the seconds ticked by. They weren't really looking at one another, but this was the case with every other girl he'd ever slow-danced with.

It was nice, he admitted to himself. It was nice to have her in his arms. It was nice having contact with another human in general, actually.

And as the side effects of her potion kicked in and her head crashed down on his shoulder as she snoozed, a sensation of warmth went through him. He smirked at Weasley, who'd finally torn himself from August, who'd spat something about sweaty hands at him.

He'd had a realization. In some strange and bizarre way that he could never truly explain, Hermione Granger made him happy.

What was stranger still was his realization that his mother had even given him her permission to do something about this happiness, if he wanted.

_Anything that you think will make you happy, don't be afraid to take it._

Easier said than done, Mum.

A.N.: This chapter is shorter than the last few, but I'm in a small time crunch. Also, know that first song I listed, the made-up one? I was singing it in my car yesterday! Lol If anyone can identify which of my other fics mentioned "Wilhelmina: the Wily Witch," you win… my extreme surprise.


	15. Wishy Washy

8 & 8th—Chapter 15—Wishy-Washy

Draco woke with a start and breathed heavily for a moment before resting his head back on his pillow. The room was completely silent. Parting the curtain of his four poster, he stuck his head out into the darkness. Weasley was definitely asleep, if the dribble of drool down his chin was any indication.

So there was a risk involved, a risk he hadn't even thought about in class when Granger's head flopped onto his shoulder. The risk's name was Ronald Weasley.

Despite some poor choices in the past, Draco was far from stupid. His current competition for high-ranking in marks confirmed this. Weasley had a wand; Draco, for all intents and purposes of defending himself, did not.

Weasley was still in love with Granger, and thus, doing anything that looked like he might be moving in on the Weasel's territory might be a dangerous sport. Might being a word he used to make himself feel like he had a chance.

Draco had already admitted to himself the fact that he was a coward. There was more than one reason he hadn't been sorted into Gryffindor, after all. But he had been sorted into Slytherin, a house known, among other things, for ambition, and therein lay the spark of hope.

He flinched when the ginger-haired boy snorted in his sleep.

O

"You feeling all right?" Harry asked, as they walked to Transfiguration.

Hermione hadn't been paying attention, her mind drifting off into a pleasant fantasy of beating Professors Amorell and Trelawney in a complicated game of wits. "Hmm?"

"Well, you did vomit yesterday," he pointed out.

Ron nodded unhelpfully. "Malfoy getting to you?" he asked, his eyebrows lowering.

"Oh." She frowned. "More Amorell, really." She turned to Harry. "I guess I'm allergic to Frilled-Pongy Dandelions."

"What?"

"That stink weed that Dean was wearing. In any case, it's definitely warding _me_ off."

Harry laughed lightly. "I don't think Luna was too worried about you encroaching on her territory, really."

Hermione gave him a fake look of annoyance. "What, you don't think I could end up with Dean?"

Now Ron was emitting a real look of annoyance. "Stupid Thomas," he grumbled.

For a moment, Hermione's mind got slightly stuck. She could hardly believe Ron could get that jealous over a hypothetical situation and over someone he'd been friends with for years. Dean was a nice boy, a good artist, and was someone she could talk to about non-magical things without having to offer a definition at every turn, but she'd never shown any interest in him, and Ron should know that. Besides, she doubted that Luna would ever let her first boyfriend out of her sight now that she'd got him.

So what happened when Hermione was ready to show interest in someone? Ron would be jealous, yes, but would their relationship ever mend afterward? And what about boys that Ron didn't get along with?

She really shouldn't be thinking like this. There was no reason for her to be entertaining the notion, even in a purely hypothetical sense, of what might happen if she ever subscribed to the prophecy.

For a brief moment, as they settled themselves at their desks in Transfiguration, she allowed herself a tiny daydream. She and Malfoy… maybe studying together in the library, and he'd reach his hand over and take hers to caress her palm with his thumb. It was peaceful, far more peaceful than she'd have thought would be possible for two people coming from such different backgrounds. Daydream Draco smiled at her, and real Hermione gasped.

"What? I'm allowed to use a pencil instead of a quill if I want to, aren't I?" This came from the Seventh Year boy she'd sat down next to.

"Oh, sure, go ahead," she mumbled, now staring down at her books.

His smile. She'd so rarely seen him smile in a friendly manner, that the thought had actually jolted her. And yet… hadn't he smiled at her a time or so over the course of the term? She could have sworn he had. How strange. If she thought about it, really thought about it, she wasn't so sure she'd ever seen a real smile, rather than a smirk, coming from him and directed at anyone besides herself and his mother.

What could that mean?

O

Draco could hardly believe his good fortune as he reclined on the sofa in the Common Room. All seven of them had left him behind to go to Weasley's Quidditch match, so here he lay, feeling utterly content with the world.

Only the portrait of the imp was bothering him. The weird-looking thing kept snapping its jaw.

His mind was reeling with the possibilities of what he could do here, left to his own devices. He could rummage through Potter's, Weasley's, and Thomas's things and see if there was anything good to hold ransom or use for blackmail. Somehow, though, he thought that he might prefer to leave Potter's things well enough alone. He hadn't bothered him much lately, and the whole Savior of the World thing might've had something to do with it. He'd rather not get on Thomas's bad-side when he'd already done such a smashing job of ignoring him the last few months, and it was probably to his benefit if Weasley didn't decide to use their bedroom as his own personal torture chamber.

But there was something he could do that had been bugging him for the last few months. He could try the door on the girls' dormitory, maybe see what enchantments had been put in place. It was dangerous, of course. He couldn't undo any spells aimed at him, but that was a risk he currently felt willing to take, especially now that there weren't any do-gooders around to be shocked and appalled.

He sent the imp a glare before descending the stairs. He was happy that the winding staircase hadn't made him ill at all. The one going up to the Headmaster's… Headmistress's office tended to make him queasy.

The door to the right looked exactly like the door to the left, except that the doorknob was on the other side. His hand twitched once before he grasped the knob. So far, so good. He released it again, deciding he hadn't magically been glued to the thing. Grasping it, he turned it and the door opened slightly.

The effect was immediate, and he snatched his hand back. The most horrible itching sensation he'd ever felt had gone through his fingertips, but it went away again as his hand retreated across the barrier.

Loath as he was to test his theory, he very quickly pushed the door further open, and every part of his arm that went into the girls' room experienced the same itching sensation.

Going into the room was definitely not going to happen, at least, not for more than a second, so he was content to just look in.

It was at least partially entertaining trying to guess which bed belonged to which girl. The one directly in front of him had the curtains pulled back, and there was a stuffed frog on the pillow. The bedding was extremely crooked, and someone had left a large note that said, "Please make your bed" directly in the middle. He was guessing that meant it was Abbott's.

The bed in the corner to his right had everything in exact parallel lines, and there was a blue quilt with the Ravenclaw emblem folded so neatly across it, he imagined Patil had used a level to place it there.

The bed in the opposite corner from the door was decently made, and a Harpies poster was tacked on the wall behind.

Which left the bed behind Abbott's.

Granger was neat, but not freakishly so. From what little he could see, the underside of her bed was completely crammed with books, poking into the dust ruffle from all sides. A large—and extremely ugly—ginger cat was asleep on her bed.

He should have known she'd be a cat-person. She did seem like the kind of girl who might end up living alone with her cats and fifteen-hundred stacks of books lining the hallways.

Curiosity satisfied, and no knickers strewn about the room to catch his attention, he hastened to close the door before the itching sensation could drive him too terribly insane.

One small peek into Weasley's trunk wouldn't hurt anything, would it?

O

Hermione landed lightly on her feet and let go of the tatty dog leash. She wasn't sure she'd ever get completely used to traveling via portkey, not that she'd ever tell anyone else that.

"Welcome to Snidget Field," Ron announced, sweeping his hands out in front of him as if he were showcasing it.

Hermione was by no means an expert on Quidditch Stadiums, having only visited Hogwarts's and the one where the Cup had been held, yet looking around, it was very clear that the Chuddley Cannons did not have a very large budget. Or, at least, no one seemed to feel the need to invest much in the team.

The goal hoops had peeling orange paint, faded like construction paper left out in the sun. They were nearly yellow. And although she couldn't be entirely sure, one of the hoops looked as if it had been mended with Spell-O Tape.

The benches were rickety, and a good portion of them had been roped off, a sign warning of a rogue bludger, loose somewhere amid the supports.

Harry sidled closer to her. "Keep smiling," he whispered, through a very fake grin of his own.

Hint obtained, she smiled brightly. "Very impressive," she fibbed, though secretly she didn't feel any inclination to step further into the stadium. There was a notable stench wafting from the overflowing dustbins off to the side.

August didn't look impressed at all and didn't bother to hide it either. "Merlin save us, the whole thing's festered." She kicked a stray Butterbeer bottle out of her path. "I'm lucky my Uncle Fonso got out while the rubbish was still low enough to fly a broom out of."

Ron growled lowly, and Hermione was left wondering for the umpteenth time how any romantic inclination had ever "festered" between the two of them, no matter how short-lived.

"It's not that bad," Ginny mumbled, though the look on her face, which gave the impression that she desperately wanted to pinch her nose, suggested otherwise. "Oh, look! There's Mum and Dad!" She waved and ran off towards them, Harry and Ron following at a more leisurely gait.

Padma and Hannah, whose animosity had risen to the point where they only spoke to one another when a professor expected them to, now huddled together, one afraid of disorder, the other afraid of what might be living in it.

Dean had brought Luna with him, and she was tugging him off in the direction of what looked like a bolted onion flower growing in a heap of moldy popcorn.

The thought of going over to talk to Mrs. Weasley was not as appealing now as it had been while she and Ron had been dating. At that time, the only awkwardness was in knowing that Molly knew she was kissing her son. Now, the awkwardness was trifold. If the woman had reacted badly to Skeeter's article about Hermione and Harry in the Fourth Year, this was going to be worse. Unless Ron and Ginny had kept mum about her and Ron's relationship being finished, Mrs. Weasley was bound to act similar to a very polite raging Chimaera.

And she did.

As the few minutes before the match wound down and the opposing team stood yawning next to the changing rooms, Hermione found her seat, which was between George, who was waving a trick flag without much gusto, and Percy, who sat beside Mrs. Weasley.

"Percy, would you please hand out these sandwiches? There are _eleven_ of them, one for each of us cheering for our Ron."

Percy was an equally quick count as Hermione. There were twelve of them total. She'd been left out on purpose, and if there'd been any doubt left in either of their minds about that, it was dispelled as Mrs. Weasley slapped Percy's hand as he tried to hand Hermione the sandwich basket.

She didn't get a "Go, Weasley, Go!" button either, not that it looked like August was going to put hers to much use.

The players met at the center of the pitch, Ron's hair and robes clashing terribly as he mounted his broom and took off.

It took Hermione a long moment to figure out what seemed to be off about the Cannons. "Harry," she said, leaning down and earning a glare from a certain matronly woman, "where's the Seeker?" Harry pointed nondescriptly toward the far corner of the field, where a very thin man was riding his broom upside-down, staring up at the match instead of down at it. "What's he doing?" She was interrupted as everyone stood up to cheer, Ron having saved the first goal of the game. "What's he doing?" she repeated, as soon as everyone was settled.

"I see _some people_ aren't as interested in _paying attention_ as the rest of us, and should perhaps keep all comments to themselves, hmm?" stated the familiar voice of Molly Weasley.

Harry made a quarter turn and shrugged, and it may have been her imagination, but it looked as if he were blushing slightly.

Ron really wasn't all that bad, at least, not compared to the rest of his team, he wasn't. He was making saves left and right and up and down. Meanwhile, the other team's keeper looked bored. So far, none of the Chuddley chasers had managed to steal the quaffle long enough to take aim.

After an hour, the score was still zero to zero, and the opposing team was starting to look slightly intrigued by the fact.

After Ron had saved the seventy-eighth shot, it looked like his arms were starting to get tired, but he just kept on knocking the quaffle away, a smirk to rival Malfoy's lighting up his face.

It was after two hours had gone by, it had started to snow, and still no one had actually made a point, that Hermione abandoned all pretense and just studied the Chuddley Seeker. He wasn't upside-down anymore. He'd flown halfway into the air to be on level with the game, and if he were looking for the snitch, he was doing a good job of hiding it. The other team's seeker was positioned above the game, his eyes sweeping the field desperately.

"Oh, come on!" George complained loudly, as another fifteen minutes went by. "I'm going to use the toilet. Maybe they'll learn something while I'm gone, like how to get by Ronnie's idiotic Midgkin's Defense Maneuver." The whole group, excluding Hermione, shushed him.

It was yet another hour later, and Hermione's jaw was chattering, when a miracle occurred. Something very shiny gleamed from the glove of the Chuddley Seeker, and he held it up dully, as if asking permission to use the loo.

The commentator didn't notice for two minutes, and the twelve fans were left yelling up at him to snap him into attention. "And… GREAT SCOTT! HE'S GOT THE SNITCH! WHEN'D THAT HAPPEN?"

"What… how?"

"Where'd it come from?"

"Merlin, was he holding that thing _the entire time? _Tell me he wasn't."

"Harry?" Hermione asked, prodding him in the back. "What did he do?"

It was at this time that Harry finally turned to face her, wearing a sheepish expression. "That's Riff Tinspace. Before he was a Seeker, he was an illusionist. I wasn't really sure at first, but I think he caught the snitch during the first few minutes and has been hiding it since to give the Cannons a chance to… show off."

"So the upside-down move?"

"A distraction," Harry answered with a smile.

"Harry?"

"Yes?"

"I don't suppose you told the Cannons to pick him over you, did you?"

Harry half-smiled. "I wish. They actually did pick him over me. It's just a little embarrassing that they did, is all." He lowered his voice. "Don't worry, though. I'm kind of glad I wasn't chosen." He winked, and they all rose to go congratulate the best Keeper the Chuddley Cannons had seen in over a century.

The other team's Keeper looked like he'd just wasted three hours of his life and knew it.

O

Draco had been delighted to find Weasley's trunk completely hex-free. What the moron was thinking, he could never guess. But, shifting through it, he wasn't finding anything of greater interest than dirty clothes, very old candy wrappers, and about a thousand chocolate frog cards.

It had probably been too much to hope that the lout kept a diary.

There was a small photo album, though. Thumbing through it, Draco found one of Creevy's snapshots, one that he was standing in the very back of, scowling as the Gryffindor three posed for the camera. It couldn't have been more than Third Year. Granger's hair was an absolute fright, her teeth were long, and there was a look on her face that said she didn't really have time for a photo op. Pulling the photograph out, Draco mutely looked at the back to see if it was labeled, which it wasn't.

Draco replaced everything in the trunk, careful to leave it how it had been before. He really didn't need to be hexed in his sleep.

Lying back on his bed, his brain was abuzz. She made him happy, yes, but should he do something about it or no? She was a mudblood, and there was nothing that could ever change that. And yet, there was a tiny piece of his brain that reminded him of the fact that the stupidest class ever still had a reason behind it. That reason was to enforce tolerance, and he'd be damned if he let Amorell win that round.

Funny, really, how it was proving two professors wrong that was keeping them at a distance from one another.

A.N.: I wanted to get this up tomorrow, but today will have to do. Tomorrow, August 16, 2008, is officially my four year anniversary as a Dramione writer, and I thought I'd commemorate the occasion with a chapter. This is my fourth novel-length in four years. Isn't that nice, everybody? (And no, I do not plan to write eight in eight years. Eek.) Also, if anyone's interested, there is a map of the dormitories with everyone's beds labeled available through my LJ.


	16. Inky Blobs Unblurred

8 & 8th—Chapter 16—Inky Blobs Unblurred

Hermione went Christmas shopping with Harry the weekend before Christmas break, despite the fact that there was a seriously large amount of studying to do for the end of term exams. It actually physically pained her to think of Malfoy using that time while she was in Hogsmeade to get ahead of her in studying. She'd taken careful note of where he'd left his bookmark in each of his texts while he'd been away from the Common Room grabbing a spare quill. She was still ahead of him. Marginally. The thing was that that margin was shrinking with every passing day. It didn't help matters that he had nowhere to go and nothing to do but study. He didn't have Quidditch, no extra curriculars, he couldn't leave the grounds, it didn't really appear that there was anyone he was particularly fond of spending time with, so other than going to class and taking the occasional stroll, he was left with ample reading time.

The truth was that he was starting to unnerve her. There was an excellent chance that he might, as the runner would say, lap her.

And that was why she walked so fast through Hogsmeade that Harry literally had to jog to keep up with her. They were done within half an hour.

O

Draco was beginning to wonder if his tear ducts still worked or not. Blinking felt like sandpaper against the rough side of Velcro, not that he'd ever have used such a Muggle invention.

_The runic alphabet of the ancient clan of Bruckzen (c. A.D. 400) was contrived of the horizontal dash, the umlaut, and a series of circles of various thicknesses that determined the wit and measure of the writer, as the author with the most variation was considered to be the least lazy concerning the intricacies of the various sounds, as per the pronunciation in the pre-vowel shift era._

The sad part was not that he had reread the paragraph five times for content but rather that he was having trouble focusing his eyes on the individual, thankfully Roman, letters. He lifted his head up, and the room swam around him in a circle of double-vision.

It was high-time for a break.

One very petulant piece of his brain complained that the worst part about his situation lately was that he was neither buying nor receiving sweets, and thus there was little chance of snacking between meals. Of course, there was nothing actually preventing his mother from sending him a care package, other than the fact that she wasn't able to go shopping, or to Gringotts, either.

Warming spells had been placed all throughout the castle, though certain places below ground level were still left drafty. That is, the dungeons and their lovely dormitories. It would have been nice, he lamented, to have spent at least one year of his school career somewhere a little warmer, for a change.

And so Draco went up the spiral stairs to sink himself onto the rug before the fireplace. Patil was lounging on the sofa, painting her toenails red and green and not paying him the least bit of attention. He truly did wish he were attracted to her. Life would be ever so much simpler that way.

As he stared into the flames, each one having an identical twin due to his tired eyes, he felt a small weight bury itself inside him.

It was depressing was what it was. It was not necessarily that he wanted to go home for Christmas, it was that he wasn't even being given a choice in the matter. There was even a stipulation in his punishment saying that he wasn't allowed to talk to anyone via floo because his head would have left the grounds, so he really only was allowed to owl his mother for Christmas.

He almost wanted to use one of those things, those "telephones." Not that that would be possible.

Draco was not often someone who thought in unselfish terms. That is, he rarely gave a knut about anyone else's feelings. But he did take exception, especially lately, for his mother.

He refused to think of anyone else he might take exception for.

O

Hermione saw Harry, Ginny, and Ron off as they boarded the Hogwarts Express to spend the holiday at the Burrow and then went to the library to what was probably the most peaceful study session she'd had in months. What a difference there was when the library was completely empty and she didn't have any immediate deadlines. Not even her impending counseling session could ruin it for her.

By the time she'd decided to call it a night, it was nearly eleven. She'd been surprised that Madam Pince hadn't thrown her out earlier.

The Common Room was completely empty when she entered it, and she didn't give it much thought as she descended the spiral stairs and went into her dormitory for a good night's sleep before her appointment in the morning.

O

He could get used to this, really. No Weasley, no Potter, no snoring…. He took full advantage of the situation by taking a nice hot bubble bath—something he'd rarely risk because he wasn't quite sure he could handle it if any of his roommates found any bubbles at the bottom of the tub. Embarrassing.

He'd just pulled out the plug when something very odd occurred to him that, truth be told, made him feel like the biggest idiot ever to grace a loo.

A few months prior, indeed, the first time he'd taken a shower here, he'd cast a cleaning spell on the soles of his feet out of disgust at the hairs in the drain.

…He wasn't supposed to be able to use magic here. The fact that he'd just taken a bath with a large, and now slightly rusted, manacle flopping about his wrist was a testament to this.

Pulling a towel around him, he slipped into the dormitory and removed his wand from his bag, doing an experimental twirl. "_Lumos_." Nothing happened, and he didn't think it was simply that he hadn't cast it in a very long while. "_Wingardium leviosa_." Nothing. "_Reparo_." Zilch. With what was probably too much gusto, he aimed his wand at his unmade bed and muttered the cleaning spell, which was actually fairly stupid of him considering it was meant to get rid of dirt, not straighten. Yet, unless it was just his imagination, the linens did look just a tad whiter than they had before.

Purposely spilling a drop of ink onto Weasley's pillow soon proved that theory wrong.

He didn't understand. Had he only _thought_ he'd cast it? Had he really just said the spell and continued to have all manner of Weasel, Potty and Thomas—for the life of him, he couldn't think of a nickname for the bloke—germs on him?

So there was really only one variable he could think of to change, and so he leaned over the bath, pointed at the drain, and muttered a vanishing charm at the few hairs clinging desperately to the porcelain.

He blinked.

For the life of him, he didn't know what kind of good it would ever do him to be able to do magic in the bathtub but nowhere else. But at least he knew that if he ever truly needed to do magic outside of class, he did have an option. A very un-useful and cramped option, but an option nonetheless.

O

Hermione awoke with a very stiff gasp before dropping her head into her pillow again. She could have sworn she'd heard something just now, but to her knowledge, she and Crookshanks were the only ones here. August, Padma, and Hannah had all left on the train.

She was either imagining things, or maybe Myrtle was causing mischief in the Common Room. She strained to hear anything, but all was silent.

Reminding herself very forcefully that there weren't any adolescent basilisks creeping around in the walls—unless some toad had accidentally sat on a chicken's egg—she rolled over and went back to sleep.

O

He'd officially gone mad. At two AM, he'd been struck with what might have been called inspiration if it hadn't been born of eccentricity, retrieved the photograph he'd admired from Weasley's trunk, went over to the bath, and used a replication spell to make a copy of it.

After he'd tucked the copy safely under his pillow and returned the original to its previous location, he very promptly collapsed into bed and went back to sleep.

O

Hermione groaned, rolled over, looked at her clock, and realized that not only had she slept in, but she was now due at Amorell's office in exactly a quarter hour.

Breakfast would have to wait, it seemed, but at least this way there was no chance of losing it—her breakfast, that was—just because of one professor.

She pulled on her clothes and did the only reasonable thing she could think of to do with her hair, pulling it into a loose bun at the back of her head. She scrambled her shoes, socks, and book bag into her arms, somehow managed to get the door open, and then she froze, barefooted and frenzied in her tracks.

Malfoy was standing at the foot of the spiral stairs, one of his feet poised as if he'd just been walking down them.

He was wearing his pajamas, was the first thought that went in a buzz of confusion around her head. The second was that he was here. The third was in answer to the second, that he was probably not allowed to go home for the holiday. The fourth was that they were alone.

The fifth was that her heart was hammering.

There were ten minutes left.

O

He'd known perfectly well that she'd had to stay for her make-up session with Amorell, and yet he'd still been under the false impression that he was alone.

Granger stood there in a kind of stupor, shoes, socks, and bag dangling from her arms as if she'd forgotten they were there.

The funny thing about this spot at the bottom of the spiral stairs was how utterly dark it was. Whoever had come up with the design had neglected to include a light of some kind, and it was with this thought that another came to mind. That from a distance and in a spherical shape, the two of them might be mistaken for inky blobs, shrouded in darkness. But now that the blobs were being defined into two distinct figures, Draco felt his feet drift forward until he was only about a foot from her.

She was still completely rooted to her spot.

His right hand drifted up to her face to cradle her jaw, and he honestly expected her to flinch away, but she didn't.

Close-up, her eyes were not the same color he'd imagined them to be. They weren't as hazel as he'd thought, but instead they were the color of dark toffee. Without looking away from them, his thumb, with what might have been a mind of its own, ran a slow path first over the arch of her upper lip and then across the breadth of the lower one, and she gasped, her eyes widening as he very slowly lowered his head to replace his thumb with his lips.

He didn't know how long he'd been yearning to kiss her. Probably since that other time on the stairs. And at that moment, it didn't matter that they were both barefoot. Didn't matter who she was or who he was. What mattered was simply that he was a boy, she was a girl, and she made him happy.

His lips were a hair's breadth from hers when she snapped out of it, whimpered, and backed into her room, shutting the door in his face.

Huh.

O

Eight minutes. Eight minutes to get to Amorell's office. Eight minutes to clear her mind. Eight minutes to get the impossible out of her brain. Eight minutes to forget the honey scent of Draco Malfoy's thumb. Eight minutes to compose herself so that she didn't have to relive the experience by explaining it in detail to Professor Amorell. Eight minutes to dismiss the thought of what it might mean to kiss him and why something in her was desperate to go back in time and let him.

There was a misuse of a time-turner, if she'd ever heard one.

She was still barefoot.

Eight.

She abandoned herself completely to logic, pulling her shoes and socks on, straightening her bag on her shoulder, and checking the time. Six and a half.

He'd almost kissed her. He'd been about to kiss her. Was he still outside the door?

She had her wand, of course, and even so there wasn't anything to worry about. A kiss was nothing to be scared of. She hadn't been scared during her first kiss with Ron—just of Voldemort, that's all. She'd been a little scared with her first kiss with Viktor, but that had been her first ever and was to be expected. She'd just been bloody annoyed with McLaggen.

Five and three-quarters.

This was just silly. He wouldn't be outside her door still. He'd been just as shocked to see her as she was to see him. He would probably have run away, considering his reputation in the bravery department.

Five minutes.

To think he almost kissed her when she was at her most disheveled. She didn't know much about his taste in girls past Pansy Parkinson, but he didn't strike her as the kind of fellow who would go for a girl with morning breath, near-pillow-hair and no make-up.

Well, out of the egg carton, into the frying pan, to run away to the fire, she decided. She opened the door so fast that if he had still been standing there, she probably could have knocked him over with a feather. He was gone from the alcove, and she whipped up the stairs, didn't look to see if he were in the Common Room, and didn't stop until she slid to a halt outside of Amorell's door with an entire two minutes to spare. If it had been anyone besides herself, she would have awarded a detention on the spot for running in the halls.

O

Draco had gone back to his room to get dressed and was now wandering slowly to breakfast, trying to sort out in his mind what had just occurred. So much for disappointing Amorell, or Trelawney, for that matter.

So close. He had been so achingly close to kissing her.

She wasn't wearing lip-gloss today, either. It was funny, really, how girls wore such things to attract boys, and yet he, at least, preferred it when a girl's lips were not covered in any sort of sticky, smelly goop once he actually did kiss her. Just ask Pansy Parkinson.

Her lips had been dry and very slightly chapped, but not so much to find it discouraging in the least. Her upper lip had been especially soft and had that wonderful dip, and he admitted to himself that he would have loved to have explored every gummy bit of her lower one….

He stopped in his tracks, realizing how hopelessly hopeless he seemed.

Kiss Hermione Granger? Some serious analyzing was very much overdue if he found the prospect even slightly less than unappealing. And he definitely found it less than unappealing. Or, to clarify the double-negatives, he found it downright appealing.

There had been a sort of mouth-watering rush as he'd approached her, as if she were actually a very overripe nectarine. There had to be something wrong with him if he were comparing her to produce.

But the problem still stood that he had tried to kiss her and that Granger knew it, too. A flash of Weasley's wrath being turned on him as he slept angelically in his four-poster completely unawares passed fitfully through his brain. It was only too bad that Draco no longer had his black-mail about a certain other kiss. Then maybe he could be kissing the Weasel's girlfriend with his blessing.

…There really was something wonky with his line of reasoning today.

He slunk into the Great Hall, groaning as he realized that the House Tables had been combined into one. There weren't many empty seats, either. Astoria Greengrass carefully placed her book bag onto the empty space beside her, snubbing him with a quick lift of her left eyebrow. Not that he'd want to sit next to her today of all days. He took a seat between Professor Sprout and a Fourth Year Ravenclaw, whose eyes widened to the approximate size of mince meat pies.

O

"Ah, Miss Granger." Amorell was wearing her usual grin, accompanied by red robes, a red-and-white-striped jumper, green skirt, green stockings, and pointed shoes. She looked like an elf.

"Hello, Professor," Hermione answered cautiously, taking the seat in front of the desk.

"Peppermint Pig?" she offered, pushing a bowl of red-and-white-swirled pigs over, all of them wallowing in a chocolate mud puddle. Hermione took one for the mere sake of having the excuse of not being able to talk with her mouth full, though she hated the squealing sound it made when she stuck it in her mouth.

"Let's see..." Amorell said, tapping her quill against her chin. "We covered the bit about your parents in Australia, yes?" She looked up for Hermione's nod of confirmation. "Professor Dumbledore left you a book in his will?" Hermione nodded and then pointed to the wiggling bulge in her cheek, sending the professor what was not really a very helpless shrug. "Right, well, when you think etiquette will let you…" she said, with a wave of continuation.

Unfortunately, the pig's center was filled with cream, so Hermione was forced to speak much sooner than she would have preferred. "_The Tales of Beedle the Bard_."

"Good, good…. You must have been close to him?"

Hermione was reminded yet again that this was a Ministry-sponsored class, and although Amorell didn't really seem the Umbridge type, the questioning did. "I do believe that Scrimgeour performed an adequate investigation into this matter, already."

Amorell looked up. "Rufus Scrimgeour?"

"Yes?" Hermione asked, confused.

"Oh, I thought maybe you meant his cousin Archie. Good friend of mine in my First Year. But I must say, Miss Granger, I don't know anything about our former Minister's investigations, as you call them. Humor me?"

Hermione had the great urge to rub the crease between her eyebrows. "I liked Professor Dumbledore, and I got on with him, but I'm not sure if you'd qualify our relationship as close or not," she finished.

"Friendly… but… distant…" Amorell mouthed, making a note. She looked up. "I'd like to play a little game." What else was new? "I'll say a word, and you say the first thing that pops into your head." She made a little smacking sound at the word "pop." Hermione nodded slowly. "All right, we'll begin with an easy one: Christmas."

"Cheer." This might not be as bad as she'd been dreading, she realized.

"Snake?"

"Death." It tumbled out of her mouth quickly, and Amorell made a note on her chart.

"Young?"

"Goodman Brown." She'd been reading Hawthorne a few nights ago.

"One word, now," Amorell corrected, smiling. "Hmm… devil?"

"Beware."

"Soul?"

"Transmogrification."

Amorell raised an eyebrow at her, but Hermione didn't feel like going into the subject of Horcruxes if she could avoid it. "Dragon?"

"Bank."

Another weird look. "Slytherin?"

"Draco." Hermione blinked. It must have been because the previous word had been dragon. There was no reason for her to be using his first name otherwise. Her back stiffened.

Amorell made a hideously long note. "Love?"

"Marriage." Another surprise, considering her recent aversion to wedded bliss.

"Kiss?"

"Thumb." Hermione's cheeks turned to a brilliant shade of rouge.

Amorell set her quill down. "Just one more thing, then," she said, and Hermione was honestly surprised that she seemed to be getting off so easily. "The ink blot test." Too easily. "Just tell me the first thing that pops into your head, just as before." Amorell grinned before grabbing up a piece of cardboard, and Hermione stared into the two inky blobs.

The rouge hadn't faded from her cheeks yet, and it intensified severely. "Prophecy," Hermione muttered. Though she couldn't really say why, this picture was definitely screaming prophecy.

O

A.N. Hello, hello! Well, this chapter was rather… vignette-ful, I'd say. I was trying to work myself up to a certain, ahem, scene. Ahem. Now who sounds like Umbridge, eh? Well, I'd really like to hear what you all have to say! We're either at or a bit past the midpoint, probably.


	17. The Joys of Studying

8 & 8th—Chapter 17—The Joys of Studying

Draco was only halfway through with his breakfast, despite the fact that he was not entirely enamored by the seating arrangement. The reason for this seemed to be some sort of trouble in the kitchens. He'd thought of having toast, only to find that there was neither butter nor marmalade nor any other kind of preserve in sight, and when those finally did appear, his toast had popped away into inexistence. Reaching for some eggs, the serving spoon had disappeared. Reaching for his fork, _it_ disappeared.

Stupid elves. Someone had probably spiked their drinking water.

He'd finally grabbed up a pancake with his bare hands when he heard footsteps echoing through the hall, and he turned his head to spot Granger pausing at the perimeter of the table. Her eyes swept up one side and down the other, carefully avoiding him, until they paused on the empty space beside Astoria Greengrass.

Astoria looked first at Granger, then very deliberately to Draco, and then back to Granger, a devilish smirk curling up under her nose. She removed her bag, and Granger hesitated slightly before taking the empty seat.

This could only lead to trouble.

O

"Hello, Granger," the girl beside her said, wearing a saccharine expression that Hermione highly doubted was in any way sincere.

"Hello," Hermione responded politely but coolly.

Astoria balanced a green grape in her hand, rolling it across her palm and then tossing it in the air to catch it again. "He's looking at us, you know."

Hermione felt every nerve ending in her entire face pinch as she blushed. "Who is?" she stammered, though there really wasn't any use in pretenses. They both very well knew who.

"The one who's decided you're the flavor of the month, of course." She pinched the grape so that it popped, sending a mist of juice squirting every which way. "But it's been more than a month, hasn't it?" _Had it?_ The idea of him feeling… feelings about her for that long was disconcerting.

"And what makes you think," she began, very slowly, trying to choose her words, "that he does consider me his, er, flavor?"

Astoria wiped her fingers off delicately. "Someone around here has to be intuitive."

"But surely," Hermione said, gritting her teeth now in an effort not to appear frazzled, "there must be something that gave you that impression?"

Astoria placed a single knuckle on her chin, turning a quarter so that she was facing her. "If you must know, Granger, he turned me down when I asked him on a date." She didn't blink.

"But—" and now Hermione was getting slightly flustered, "how exactly does that mean that…."

"And then after you and your oaf were finished, he was practically giddy. _Giddy_," she stressed.

"Well, that's natural. He doesn't exactly like—"

"But since you've figured out who it is I'm talking about already, I'm sure that there's really no reason for me to be justifying my claims. Obviously, he's done something to justify them on his own." She popped another grape in her mouth. "Isn't that right?"

Hermione didn't answer, choosing to ignore the girl beside her as much as humanly possible.

O

Draco sat fully dressed in his bathtub, doing his Charms homework. Swish, double-flick, slash left. As far as he could tell, his manacle worked both spatially and temporally. Ordinarily, it only allowed him to do magic within the confines of one of his classrooms at the time the class was scheduled for, yet this little cubic foot of space seemed to be an exception, as if someone had to lay out a map of where he was allowed to do magic and had missed a spot or even accidentally added a spot. An extra drop of ink, perhaps, so small that the cartographer hadn't paid it any mind.

The problem was that most spells required too much "foolish wand-waving" to even fit within the confines of the cubic foot, but he had been able to practice a few spells. That was far better than nothing.

The process of practicing his spells, if nothing else, served as a wonderful distraction. A wonderful distraction from the fact that he had literally scared Granger into going home for the holiday after all. After breakfast, she had marched up to McGonagall and informed the aging professor that she'd be leaving to go home that afternoon. McGonagall had given her leave, seeing how Granger was a legal adult and not a felon, like some people, and he hadn't seen her since.

He was mentally preparing himself for three weeks of boredom.

O

Her parents were already in Canada, visiting her estranged relatives without her. This posed a serious problem. Well, perhaps serious wasn't the best word to use. It made going home for the holiday extremely pathetic because there was no one at home to see, and Hermione, despite all 

evidence of the voluntary seclusion she submitted herself to in the library, did want to be around people on Christmas. Ordinarily, there would have been a very simple, painless, and very cheerful solution to her problem. Going to the Burrow this year, however, was simply not an option. Even if she did suck in her pride and agree to being around Ron for a fortnight and a half, there was no guarantee that she'd even be welcome. Mrs. Weasley had not been privy to all of the details of the break-up, and Hermione had too much pride to correct her. If the woman wanted to believe that there was no possible scenario in which Ron could have been at fault, then tough. _She_ knew better, and that was all there was to it.

Packing her trunk, she couldn't help but feel like she was running away from her problems, which wasn't exactly the most Gryffindor thing to do. Avoidance wasn't an answer; it was an out. However, her inner Ravenclaw told her that she was simply subtracting a variable from an equation. Hermione minus Malfoy is equal to peace of mind.

She collapsed into a heap at the foot of her bed, groaning and causing Crookshanks to move grumpily to her pillow. The door to the room was closed, and it was taunting her. It was a nice door: five panels, ash, dark finish, a glossy white porcelain doorknob.

For all she knew, he could be lying in wait outside of it again.

He couldn't enter the room. She knew that much. She'd cast a few charm-revealing spells at the beginning of term and found there were wards in place in both dormitories that prevented anyone of the incorrect gender from crossing the thresholds without feeling an incredibly aggravating itching sensation.

Not that she really thought he'd be of the mind to actually try to enter the room. The almost-kiss had not been pre-meditated, and she doubted he'd be that bold if they were both on their guard.

One thing that bothered her was the fact that he didn't seem exactly averse to what this entire situation could do to his reputation. Unless Amorell's lessons on tolerance had actually sunk in—doubtful—then he should still be thinking of her in Mudbloodian terms.

Of course, his reputation wasn't exactly going places at the moment. With the exception of the very suspicious Astoria Greengrass, most of Slytherin house had been treating him as if he barely existed. Maybe if there were other Slytherin Eighth Years, things would be different.

Standing again, Hermione poked her head under her bed to retrieve a few books, and an odd feeling that somewhat resembled guilt ran through her, except that guilt was not the correct emotion. By leaving now, she would be abandoning her claim to the library… correction, to _her_ library. She'd spent enough time in there over the years that she might as well have a stake in the floor with her name proclaiming the stacks as her own. Leaving now would mean Malfoy having the endless resources available to him and she having whatever she retrieved from under her bed and nothing else.

She hated these sorts of dilemmas. If it weren't such a ludicrous idea, she might have thought he had planned this on purpose. Pretend to want to kiss her, scare her, drive her away from the library so that he could best her in all their subjects, beat her in their NEWTs because of a three-week head start, then gloat over the fact forever. Right.

"I've already told McGonagall I'd leave," she muttered to herself, fingering a copy of an Ancient Runes text. No one ever said she wasn't allowed to change her mind, of course. Then again, Malfoy had overheard her telling McGonagall, and it just wouldn't do to surprise him with her presence _again_.

O

Draco frowned. There was a knock at the bedroom door. It took him a moment to hobble out of the tub, and he quickly put his wand aside before opening the door, not quite sure who to expect. The ghost of Snape, maybe.

Granger stood there with her wand out, holding it almost menacingly. "Look here," she said, with the tiniest jab in his direction. "I've decided to stay for the remainder of the holiday, and if you know what's best for you," another jab, "you'll stay away from me."

"You're staying?" he repeated.

"Yes."

"Interesting." He loved that word. "You can put your wand down; I'm not very well going to jump you, you know." He leaned back into the door jamb, enjoying the mix of ferocity and nervousness at play on her face.

"You'll forgive me for being wary." She kept her wand aloft.

"Granger?"

"What?" she spat.

"How about a study date?"

The best word he could think of to describe the look on her face was flummoxed. "Excuse me?" she spluttered.

"We go to the library; we share a table; we help one another. Mutually beneficial. You can choose how to interpret the date part on your own. I wouldn't exactly call it romantic, so that should help assuage your fears."

She bit her lip, and her hesitation was like a blessing to him. "I'm not going on a date with you, Malfoy."

"So we'll call it a study session, and I'll forgo pulling out your chair for you. What do you say?"

He could see the way she was mentally calculating, probably listing pros and cons and weighing them out in a large mental scale made out of gold and rubies. He smiled slightly, and her expression tripped, splaying into something unidentifiable and broken. She took a breath, whimpered, and grit her teeth. "Fine, but you stay at least three feet from me at all times." She didn't jab her wand.

As his smile grew, so did her frown. "Wonderful." He swept an arm towards the stairs. "Ladies first."

"I don't know if I like that idea," she said through gritted teeth.

He laughed. "But if I go first, there's no guarantee I won't stop in my tracks and let you bump into me, now is there?"

She blushed crimson, hopefully remembering the last time she'd bumped into him on the way up the stairs. She turned and sped up the spiral as quickly and uncoordinatedly as possible. Draco enjoyed the view very much.

O

This was a bad idea. The little fantasy scenario she'd had not-so-very long ago was literally being played out before her, with the exception that Malfoy would definitely not be holding her hand anytime soon… or ever. But they were in the library together, and they were studying together, and it was, oddly enough, peaceful.

He shoved a book toward her, pointing to a paragraph. "What do you think, one lacewing fly or two?"

"One and a half." He moved his book away again.

"Thought as much. How would you divide that? Symmetrically or along the thorax?" He leaned his elbow on the table and rested his head on his hand, looking at her.

"Symmetrically," she said with a nod.

"Excellent." He made a note on a piece of parchment he'd taken from the table beside the card catalogue. He'd also grabbed one of the itsy-bitsy self-inking quills the library provided, which had always made her think of the stubby pencils at her library back home. His lips were curved slightly upwards, as if he were enjoying a private joke.

She cursed his smile. It had been what convinced her to come with him in the first place. She could resist his smirks; those were abundant enough. But his smiles were rare, and as such, they were addicting.

They continued studying in silence for awhile, only the turning of pages and the scratching of quills to be heard. Far across the room, Madam Pince was compiling a list of overdue books that 

few students had a chance of returning during the break. "How'd it go with Amorell?" Malfoy asked, conversationally.

"Bearable," Hermione mumbled, trying to block out her memories of certain responses she'd made earlier that day.

"She pull the Rorschach test on you?"

"Yes," she answered curtly, hoping he wouldn't press for any further information on the matter.

"That woman is beyond barking. As if there's anything to inky blobs." He grinned to himself, and Hermione wondered if she were going insane or if there were something she was missing. There was a long pause, his grinning dropping away so that his mouth set into a tight line in a bipolar sort of way. "I don't suppose she asked about your experience with… my aunt?"

She didn't need him to clarify which aunt or which experience. "No." Funny that. That she should be sitting here peaceably with a boy whose aunt had tortured her in his house only last spring. He nodded, looking slightly relieved and yet slightly green, and she wondered if he would delve into that night when he had stood uselessly at the side of the room while she screamed bloody murder under his aunt's hand. "Did she ask you about it?"

"A bit," he admitted. The air he'd had about him only a minute previously had fizzled away to be replaced with somberness, and his shoulders drooped. "Good thing you left our joint session early, isn't it?"

"It was probably for the best," she agreed. The memory of her birthday wasn't exactly a cheerful one, but it was nice to know that her sacrifice of marks had been necessary. There was no chance that they'd have ever been able to look one another in the eye again if they'd been forced to relive that particular experience in tandem.

He sneaked a look at her, and Hermione wanted to tear her gaze away. Things were getting much too personal with Draco Malfoy today. "I never did thank you, did I?" he asked. He looked uncomfortable. She felt uncomfortable.

"No need." With what was probably a very unnatural transition, she turned back to her book, and he watched her for a second longer before going back to his own.

Roughly two hours later, and Malfoy sat with his head in his hand, looking just about ready to either nod off or kill himself from boredom. "Granger?" he asked, and she looked up from the notes she'd been scribbling down with less fury than usual, probably owing to the fact that her rival was so obviously not getting ahead of her in his studies for the moment.

"Mm-hmm?" she asked, dotting an i before finishing the sentence she'd been halfway through.

"I think my stomach is about to digest itself. Maybe some lunch?"

She checked her watch. It was half past noon. "Go ahead." She moved her wrist back into place over her parchment, pressing the tip of her quill down.

"I was hoping you'd come with me," he intoned.

"And I'm not hungry yet, nor am I obliged to do any such thing." She scratched a capital T into her parchment.

He laughed lightly. "You may not be obliged, but I am."

She looked up, frowning at him. "How's that?"

His features gathered to look sarcastically grave. "Well, according to Professors Amorell and Trelawney—who are obviously experts on such matters and should be blindly trusted at all times—you're to be my wife someday, and in which case, I can't very well allow you to starve, now can I?"

She knew she should have been petrified, irate, and disgruntled, but instead she let go of something between a snort and a laugh, actually sending some spittle into her hand as she clutched her face.

O

It was good to see her laughing, even if it was at the thought of any sort of future together, not that he could blame her. It was much, much too early in their… relationship? to vocalize in any sort of seriousness. Besides, she didn't even like him that way, or at least she preferred not to admit it.

Hell, he preferred not to admit it.

"I would like it if you'd come, though. The seating arrangements… not so wonderful."

She sobered herself, her cheeks looking tense after the fit of laughter. "Go sit with Greengrass. I'm sure she'd be happy to keep you entertained." She looked annoyed, but there could have been any number of reasons for that.

"Oh, I'm sure she would," he grumbled facetiously, rising to his feet just as his stomach gurgled loudly. "Sure you aren't even a tad hungry? Breakfast this morning wasn't exactly easy to keep hold of."

She didn't answer, and he took it as a no.

O

Hermione looked up as the door to the library closed. Truthfully, she was hungry, but there was no chance of going to the Great Hall with him. Studying together was one thing. Eating together was far too familiar.

She'd go to visit Hagrid. Rock cakes were better than nothing. Barely.

O

A.N.: Today is my birthday. May I have reviews, please?


	18. Grow the Roses of Success

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 18—Grow the Roses of Success

Hagrid was very happy to have a visitor, especially during the Christmas season, and he very graciously stuck an entire stack of rock cakes before Hermione, as well as a pot of loose-leaf black tea. They talked a bit before he stepped out to feed one of his pets—a creature Hermione was entirely sure was illegal, dangerous, and apparently a bright shade of pink.

As the half giant ducked out the door, she took a final gulp of her tea, looked down, and very nearly shrieked.

There was a heart at the bottom of her tea cup.

She didn't need to have finished her Divination training to be able to discern what a heart might signify, and she quickly refilled her cup in order to swirl the tealeaves back into a flurry of disorder.

Today was just not her day.

O

Days went by, and Draco found himself somehow missing the Deputy Head Girl, despite the fact that they slept next door to one another. She was eluding him. He didn't even see her at mealtimes, meaning she was either eating earlier than him, later than him, or was getting to know the few restaurants in Hogsmeade rather well.

There was also the possibility that she'd changed her mind and had left the library in his keep after all.

That theory was easily dispelled by a brief conversation with Madam Pince, who confirmed, albeit gruffly and with much suspicion, that Granger had been in a few times to check out books and leave again.

She was becoming the new definition of "playing hard to get." He'd call it a game of cat and mouse, except she, having a wand, was much more catlike, at least in the claw area.

And so it was that Draco found himself desperately bored for an entire week before Christmas Eve came. At which point, a plan began to unfurl within his brain, and he made haste to bring it to fruition. Sitting in his bathtub, he very carefully performed a small conjuring spell. It perhaps wasn't the best gift, nor the most impressive or even all that thoughtful—which was arguable, actually—but it was a gift.

Now all he had to do was hope that Granger A) didn't figure out that he'd used magic to procure it, and B) was by far more girly than previous evidence would suggest.

He hated having to resort to acting like a romantic sap, but it did seem to be a well-established method of gaining proximity of a young female's graces.

O

Hermione rolled over in her bed, mumbling sleepily about a particularly difficult Arithmancy equation that she had spent the majority of her evening worrying her lip over. Why did the answer always come out as five when it was, by necessity, an even number? Whoever heard of a set of magidic pairs with one magide left over?

It was only when the sound of Crookshanks scratching at the door reached her that she opened her eyes.

Funny how she'd been dreaming about maths when it was Christmas morning. Sitting up, she found that Father Christmas had not forsaken her, nor had her parents, it seemed, despite their current location. It was already shaping up to be a better holiday than the year previous.

Much to her surprise, there was a lumpy package that turned out to be a Weasley jumper. It was off-white, and a wand had been knit into the upper left corner. There was no note attached, and Hermione was forced to come to two possible conclusions, neither of which was entirely explanatory. Either Mrs. Weasley had finished knitting early enough that it would have been a waste not to send it along its merry way or the woman had finally heard the truth, that Ron was a bit of a cad.

The next package was revealed to be a new set of robes from her parents, who did most of their shopping for her by catalogue, entirely thankful that Madam Malkin accepted both muggle post and owl post. There were several more gifts from them, as well.

Harry had sent her a book she'd pointed out to him during their shopping trip together, so that wasn't entirely surprising.

Ginny had sent a cat brush.

Hermione was just about to reach for what she presumed was a package from Ron—which made her slightly uncomfortable—when Crookshanks made a good leap toward the doorknob in an attempt to turn it. "You smell a mouse, don't you?" she murmured, padding across the room to let the furry beast out. No sooner was the door open than Crookshanks made a bound up the spiral stairs, chasing some unseen quarry.

Hermione was about to close the door again when she caught sight of something pale sitting in the darkness.

It was a clump of flowers. With one wary glance at the other door at the bottom of the stairwell, she bent and picked it up, moving inside to get a better look.

The flowers were a pale lilac color, and the leaves were large and rounded, but what caught Hermione's attention was the tag that had been looped around the stem.

"This is an ivy-leafed geranium. Look it up."

She really didn't need to recognize the handwriting to guess who the author had been, despite the telling nature of the scrawl. It was decidedly too lazily elegant to belong to anyone else.

In one of the several Herbology books stored beneath her bed, there was a section on Floriography, better known as the Language of Flowers, which had been used in the Victorian era and was one of the few trends that wizards had adopted from Muggles, though wizards had made a few minor additions to the list. A flowering mandrake, for example. Hermione flipped through to the G's, moved on past garlic, and settled on Geraniums.

Geraniums in general had several meanings, varying from a true friend to stupidity. But he'd been more specific than that. Her finger glided past apple geraniums to ivy, and she raised an eyebrow. "Your hand for the next dance."

It was just so… specific, and she was struggling not to read too much into the message. There were no more dances planned for their Good Grief class; however, that was not to say that the two of them might not both be in attendance for some other dance someday. Worse was the really nagging suggestion that poked and prodded the back of Hermione's brain like an overzealous lobster. He could mean, dare she think it, what Amorell had suggested during their little dance party. That they might dance together at their wedding.

Her stomach turned.

She was definitely thinking too much. He couldn't possibly mean that. He was just making an allusion to the fact that they had danced together and that he might not mind dancing together again.

She fought against her mind's automatic response of quoting the oft said, "It takes two to tango," and forced herself to think of more logical matters. Such as where Draco Malfoy might have procured a flower in the dead of winter.

He might have gotten it from the Greenhouses, she reasoned, though she couldn't remember ever seeing something so ordinary as a geranium in any of them. He could actually have a house plant in his room, though she doubted Harry and Ron would have restrained themselves from snickering to her about that. Or he might have ordered it or even asked a staff member or fellow student to use a variation of _Orchideous_ to conjure it.

Such a thing was probably listed in _Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches_, which Hermione had been slightly disgruntled to find in Ron's possession.

Speaking of whom…. She reluctantly turned her attention from the cryptic flower to the last package on her bed.

It was wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string, but unlike a certain nun named Maria, this was not one of her favorite things. Or perhaps it would have been one of her favorite things a few years prior, but now, under the circumstances, Hermione could not choose to take it as such. It was too much.

Too much because Ron hadn't taken the price tag off of it. As if his ability to spend twelve galleons on her made the least bit of difference in her affections.

It was a thoughtful gift, she acknowledged. It was a brand new, dragon hide-bound journal with pages edged in gold leaf. Honestly, though, it looked as if it were meant for someone who merely wanted to put it on display under a glass case rather than actually use it or appreciate it. Perhaps not the best analogy, but she somewhat equated it to giving a bowl of wax fruit to someone with scurvy.

The inside cover revealed it to be monogrammed in gold lettering, but it was what Ron had written at the top of the first page that she found puzzling.

Dear Hermione,

After all we've been through, I'm sorry it had to turn out this way. I've done some thinking, and I'd like us to go back to how we used to be, as friends. Hopefully, you'll be able to forgive me someday, for everything.

Hope you enjoyed your Christmas,

Ron Weasley

What was puzzling was that he had, apparently, given up on regaining her affections. So what, then, was the point in giving her such an expensive gift?

There was no point in dwelling on the matter. She'd find out sooner or later, she was sure.

The clump of flowers still sat on her bed, almost taunting her.

When had her love-life gotten so dangerously out of whack? Ron wanting to just be friends and Malfoy wanting to kiss and dance with her? Even if it were reversed, she'd still be surprised if Malfoy wanted to be friends with her and if Ron actually wanted to dance.

O

This was the most pitiful assortment of presents Draco had ever received, and he very much wanted to throw a temper tantrum like the ones that had gotten him many, many sweets from the House-elves when he had been young.

Unfortunately, a temper tantrum was seen as unbecoming of someone at the age of eighteen, even if he were alone in his room.

Besides, Granger might hear. How embarrassing might that be?

His mother had sent him two gifts, and that had been it. No one else had sent him a thing.

She'd sent a hamper of baked goods, which he had a strong suspicion she had actually baked herself. Without magic. This suspicion was mostly based on the fact that the crust of a pie was extremely burnt while the pumpkin filling was still runny in the center. He'd tried a biscuit that looked fairly safe, but he spat it out almost immediately. It was like a ginger-flavored block of salt.

The other gift wasn't nearly so abnormal, as he got at least one every year. A set of robes.

He couldn't blame her, really. She wasn't allowed to make withdrawals from Gringotts without actually being present at the bank, and because she wasn't allowed out of the manor, she couldn't exactly do that. So he assumed she had saved up and sent for the robes. The food, on the other hand, was slightly easier to procure. The manor did have a yard and a greenhouse, after all, and pumpkins kept for many months without spoiling. His mother had been spending much of her extra free-time developing her green thumb and not enough of it developing her cooking skills, it would seem.

The tantrum urge diminished, to be replaced by saturnine thoughts, which bloomed into life as he thought about his mother.

His mother. And his father.

He'd been purposely trying to think about anything but for quite a while now, and so he suddenly felt guilt for _not _dwelling more on the fact that his father was empty. Just a body somewhere, not seeing or thinking or doing, just being. Probably soiling itself.

What was it that witch had said at the Kiss ceremony? That the soul is immortal. That it requires a soul to enter the afterlife. Was his father's afterlife doomed to be at the pit of a dementor's large intestine?

There had been a time, many years ago, when Draco had woken on Christmas morning, and his father had still been in the process of levitating presents onto the foot of Draco's bed. They'd shared a moment, just sizing one another up, until his father had smirked and told him not to tell his mother that he knew Father Christmas wasn't real, because she relished the idea of her little boy being _little_.

And somehow, that had made him feel like a man at the wizened age of six.

He wished he could feel like a man now. Despite all he had been through and his legal status as an adult, he was still a teenager. Just a kid, really.

Moving out of the bedroom and into the loo, he sat down on the tile floor between the bathtub and the toilet, relishing the cool, even if it were freezing down there. He felt ill.

It was unlike him to lie down somewhere that urine could have easily been, but he gave into the urge and rested his head near the door. His brain felt as if it were whirling, and he felt flushed, warm all over. Maybe he was going to faint. Those funny black dots were starting to creep into his vision.

His mother hadn't poisoned him, had she?

No. He'd felt like this before. Maybe Moaning Myrtle would float up through the U-bend and listen to his troubles like she had the last time.

The dots faded, and the heat melted away into shivers, except for the heat at his eyes.

Draco cried.

O

Hermione separated her hair into three sections, carefully beginning a loose braid. She'd gotten dressed, now wearing the Weasley jumper and a new pair of pants, feeling slightly festive, if a bit disgruntled by being so alone today.

As she began to tie a ribbon at the end of the braid, the oddest sound floated through the wall to her right. It was sort of a choking sound, and she wondered briefly if Crookshanks was coughing up a fur ball on the stairway.

But that wasn't the right tone. This wasn't so guttural. It was… nasal.

Doing a brief calculation in her head, she realized that the other side of the wall did not house the spiral stairs at all. It was the boys' lavatory. And that wasn't the sound of choking. It was sobbing. Quiet sobbing, as if the one doing it didn't want to be doing it but had to anyway.

She wondered if this was how Harry had felt in their sixth year, realizing what he'd walked in on. Surely, the sight of Draco Malfoy crying had to be worse than just the sound, but the knowledge itself was plenty.

Malfoy. Crying. It was surreal.

She hesitated for a moment. She had a weird, motherly intuition to go to him and ask what was wrong, but that couldn't possibly be a good move. If he tried to kiss her when he was like that, she'd probably go ahead and let him, and she couldn't allow that to happen. Besides, comforting him would be awkward. Horrendously so.

But she had to do something.

And so, Hermione succumbed to what was probably a very dangerous game.

She sent him a flower.

O

There was a knock at the door, and Draco sat up. _Now_ she came to visit him, of all times. He rubbed the back of his palm across his eyes, sniffling. He took a breath, glanced in the mirror to find that his eyes were a brilliant shade of red, decided there was really nothing for it, and opened the dormitory door.

Unless her cat had developed a sudden ability to knock, no one was there. He was just about to close the door when he happened to glance down.

It was a blue flower. Several teardrop shaped petals extended from a base with many curved pistils, stamens surrounding them, and all along the stem were soft spikes that branched out in every direction, like a fennel. He'd seen these before, but he didn't know the name. Good thing she'd included a tag.

"This is a Love in a Mist. Don't read too much into its name; just look it up."

Despite himself, he was smiling. She'd sent a reply. How very cooperative of her.

He shut the door and retrieved the helpful Herbology book he'd been using before, quickly turning to the correct page. Just above Love-Lies-Bleeding was Love in a Mist, his much preferred choice between the two.

The entry was short and to the point. "You confuse me."

He covered his mouth to block a laugh. It was almost surreal to laugh right then. He was slightly dizzy still from lying on the floor, and crying sometimes had a chilling effect, like a small cold, and that was exactly how he felt at the moment, shivery and ill. So the laugh was odd, bubbly somehow. Out of place.

It helped balance him, in a way.

He briefly considered sending her another flower in reply, but he realized quickly that it would be too dangerous. The secret of Bathtub Magic needed to remain secret, even if what he was doing was relatively harmless considering how little space he had to work in. If anyone found out, it could easily mean a trial. He might even trigger a change of heart and get himself shipped off to Azkaban.

At the very least, the fluke would be corrected, and he rather enjoyed the tiny oasis he'd discovered.

If he were going to keep up the floriography, he'd have to wait so that she'd at least be able to assume he'd procured the flowers from somewhere other than the drain in his shower-tub. Great Merlin but that sounded off….

He went over the list of messages he could convey with a flower, and settled, finally, on something that could only confuse her more.

O

It was a full week later on New Years Eve, and Hermione had managed to almost completely evade him. She'd been eating in the kitchens, reading in the empty Charm's classroom, where she could sit on a large cushion and loaf with ease, and spending the rest of her time either in her room or exploring Hogsmeade and the surrounding area.

She'd almost completely evaded him. Almost.

She had noticed him near one of the greenhouses on her way to the village, though she was fairly certain he hadn't seen her. It looked as if he'd been wandering around them for some time, his cloak dusted with a thick layer of snow.

That same night, she found a green rose on her doorstep, and she didn't even have to look up the meaning of that one. Who could forget?

Draco Malfoy had just admitted to being from Mars.

O

AN.: There are, apparently, several varying lists of flower meanings, but the one I used came from www . victorianbazaar . com / meanings . html. It seemed like every list said something different for geraniums, and the one other site that listed ivy geraniums said "bridal favor." Not really the same. I must admit I read _something_ the other day that mentioned the Language of Flowers, but I can't remember now if it was a fanfic or a text book. Please forgive me if I'm inadvertently stealing someone else's plot bunny.

The chapter title comes from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. "Up from the ashes of disaster grow the roses of success. Oh, yes!" And, you know, from the plot summary.


	19. An Approximation of Normality

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 19—An Approximation of Normality

Draco celebrated the New Year by foraging through Weasley's things. He didn't notice anything new, though that might have had something to do with the fact that Weasley had spent very little time in their dormitory lately. Draco did spend a few extra minutes perusing the photo album his copied photograph had come from.

He'd been neglectful before, he realized. He hadn't looked at any of the more recent ones.

He found himself staring at pictures from Bill and Fleur Weasley's wedding. How a Weasley had managed to nab a veela was a question Draco was far from able to answer.

Granger looked beautiful, her hair sleek as it so rarely was and a floaty lilac dress hanging elegantly off her form.

And she was dancing—dancing with _Weasley_, but that couldn't be helped.

He made a copy of this photograph as well.

O

Hermione stood with her nose pressed against a window on the first floor, staring out at the rain that was coming down in torrents. The problem was that there was a good foot of snow outside, which was now turning into slush. Her plan to go sit in Puddifoot's and read with a nice pot of tea and a raspberry cream cheese scone was quickly going to pot.

Too bad. It would have been so peaceful considering no one else from the school was about to brave the weather.

Her breath had left a mist on the window, and she leaned away, watching it slowly dissipate.

"The elusive _Lumbricus libris_ makes its appearance at last, eh?"

"That the scientific name for a bookworm?" she asked, not bothering to turn around. Her back stiffened, though.

"You catch on fast. I like that." He moved to lean against the wall beside her, and she turned her head slightly. "Must they all come back again tomorrow? I could really do without the snoring."

She was about to tell him that he should just cast a silencing spell, but she caught herself. "Pomfrey might give you some earplugs, if you ask her nicely."

"Aw, but Granger. When do I ever ask anyone anything nicely?" He smirked at her, but she ignored him, choosing to stare into the sleet instead. A flash of lightning crossed the sky, and she groaned, leaning her forehead against the glass. "But maybe," his voice was tentative, "maybe you're onto something there. Maybe asking nicely is the key to several of life's little puzzles."

_From the corner of her eye, Hermione saw his hand move, and a moment later there was a slight pressure on her elbow. She flinched, turning to face him._

"_For example," he continued, as if he hadn't just committed a taboo and touched her, "what if I were to ask you something nicely? The likelihood of your acquiescence might just increase, am I right?"_

_Hermione felt herself blushing. "What are you on about?"_

_Malfoy surveyed her critically, his chin resting in the cradle between his thumb and index finger. "May I kiss you, Granger? Please?"_

_In the three seconds it took before and during his question, Hermione's heart rate had sped up by a terrifying degree, and the roof of her mouth went dry. Her tongue stuck before she answered. "I… don't think that's such a good idea."_

"_That's a no, then?" he asked, and she was honestly just a little frightened by the fact that he suddenly looked terribly nervous._

_She nodded._

"_Yes, that's a no, or no, you meant yes?" he asked._

"_Yes, that's—"_

_Draco Malfoy moved with an agility that Hermione had never really paid much attention to before, aside from the times when she'd watched as he and Harry sped toward the snitch in unison, and frankly, it was apparently an "objects in mirror are closer than they appear" type of situation. From afar, his speed was relative. Up close? Up close he was a blur._

_Or perhaps it was simply that he knew she was more likely to fly than a snitch._

_In a flash, his right hand had latched onto her left elbow again, and his left hand flew to her chin._

_So much can happen in the space of a millisecond, and in that millisecond before Hermione could say, "a no," he was pressed against her, window glass at their shoulders, his gray eyes staring down into her brown ones._

_But he didn't kiss her._

_He remained a hair's breadth from her lips, and she could feel his breath blowing against the peach fuzz between her lip and nose: warm, but not malodorous, as the "Mal" in his name might suggest._

"_A no," she finished, her voice sounding extremely off-kilter, probably from the ensuing hysteria._

_His grip relaxed, he pulled away, and Hermione found herself sinking on weak knees onto the stone window sill, watching him walk away._

Except that none of that had really happened.

"Aw, but Granger. When do I ever ask anyone anything nicely?" He smirked at her, and a flash of lightning crossed the sky. "But maybe," his voice was tentative, "maybe you're onto something there. Maybe asking nicely is the key to several of life's little puzzles."

And he'd walked away, leaving Hermione to her daydream. No one ever said she lacked an attention to detail, even in her imaginings, it seemed.

There was a thunderclap.

O

Luna Lovegood bounded to the Gryffindor table, wearing a frilly rose-colored dress that made her look a little like a Christmas tree. Hermione momentarily considered docking points for being out of uniform, but considering this was Luna, that might not be entirely fair. The girl had _problems_, after all.

Hermione sat next to Harry, who sat next to Ron, who looked relatively chipper, but Luna had come up behind Dean, who sat at the other side of the table.

"I have news," she announced, not really looking in any one direction.

"Oh, do you?" Harry asked, a small smile on his face. Luna nodded, smiling vaguely off to one side.

"And what is that news, Luna?" Hermione asked.

"I have an internship," she responded. "But I worry that the gloss-footed willosnitchers might get in the way," she added, a small pout on her face.

Hermione frowned. "An internship? Where?" What respectable company would offer an internship to Luna? And especially while she was still in school.

"The Department of Mysteries," she replied. "I was told I have all of the necessary qualities for the ideal Unspeakable."

Hermione was about to retort, but she bit her tongue, realizing that Luna's statement was actually fairly true. If anyone could believe and work with things almost too imaginary to be spoken about, it was Luna Lovegood.

"When do you start?" Harry asked between bites of apple crisp.

"February," she replied. "Weekends until the end of term. Daddy was very pleased. He says I'll finally be able to prove the existence of weresnails for him."

"And what do you think, Dean?" Ron asked, the hint of a snigger in his voice.

"Sounds good to me?" Dean stated, looking unsure of himself. Luna leaned over and kissed his cheek.

"Oh, don't worry. My spirit-projector will keep you company." With that, she floated off to the Ravenclaw table before any of them could actually congratulate her.

"Spirit-projector?" Ron asked, trying not to laugh.

Dean shook his head. "You don't want to know."

O

"So, 1999. Next year should be exciting."

Draco sat in the library, trying to read but being continually distracted by what he deemed to be very poor flirting between a Third Year Hufflepuff and a Second Year Ravenclaw.

"Maybe we should party like it's 1999."

"What? It _is_ 1999."

"I mean, like the song."

"Song? What song?"

The Hufflepuff shook her head. "Nevermind. It's a Muggle thing."

"Oh."

The small talk was driving him up a wall, and Draco finally decided that if they didn't pipe down or say something marginally entertaining—like professing undying badger-eagle love—in the next thirty seconds, he would have to find a new table.

The entrance of a different badger caught his eye. Moon walked into the library followed shortly by Ron Weasley. They walked off toward the back of the library together.

If today had not been a Sunday and the last day before spring term, he might have dismissed the fact that the two of them had just walked in together. He might have assumed they were doing an assignment. But instead he was forced to assume other things, and Draco stood to tiptoe after them.

"Thank your mother for the jumper she sent me," Moon said, and Weasley nodded.

"It's no big deal. She can finish one in two days."

"Still, that was really nice of her. And two days is a lot!" She crossed her arms, a small glare on her face.

"Oh, calm down," Weasley admonished. "I swear you take everything out of context."

"I'm surprised you know what context means," she grumbled.

Weasley placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry. Okay?"

She stiffened. "Fine."

Weasley smiled, and Moon smiled back reluctantly. And then—Draco had to squeeze his eyes shut. He did _not_ want to watch those two snogging.

He was lucky his lunch wasn't revisiting him. Disgusting.

O

Hermione sat in the Common Room with a book propped up on her lap. _The principle is based largely in part upon the Theory of Contiguity, in which two objects are aligned in parallel habitation for prolonged amounts of time until their magical properties create a chemical and polar attraction that drive them toward one another—_

She slammed the book shut, blushing. Her thoughts were not going at all in the desired direction.

It was at this moment that the door opened, and August came in. She took one look at Hermione, her eyes went large, and she popped down the spiral stairs as if a herd of bicorn were after her. Hermione looked left and right, wondering if there was something in the room she was missing.

O

The end of the winter hols meant a return to Grief Counseling, House Unification and Tolerance, and Draco could not have been dreading it more. That class was absolutely the biggest waste of time he'd ever been subjected to, including Defense Against the Dark Arts with Delores Jane Umbridge.

The one bright side to the class was that he was partnered with a smart-aleck whom he desperately wanted to snog, her blood status and bushy hair be damned. The latter was actually starting to grow on him—not literally, of course.

And so, Draco made the inevitable trek to the classroom that had once been home to Quirrel, Lockhart, Lupin, Moody, Umbridge, Snape, and a Carrow, but was now that of someone far more sinister: Amorell. (Well, perhaps she wasn't the most sinister among them, but hyperbole did make life more interesting, in Draco's opinion.)

Today the woman wore what for her was incredibly odd. Black robes. Plain, boring, standard-issue black robes. She almost looked like she might be a normal professor, and indeed, to the untrained eye, she probably would.

Amorell sat at her desk with her hands neatly folded. Behind her sat another woman with a clipboard, a quill, and a tweed outfit that made her look twenty years older than she probably actually was.

A smirk was beginning to grow as a realization began to unfurl within Draco's brain.

Someone had come to check Amorell's progress and suitability to her post. Sweet freedom was only a few negative check boxes away.

O

"It seems," Amorell said in a professional tone, "that someone has filed a complaint against my teaching abilities, and as such, Madam Fitch will be observing our class today."

Hermione couldn't believe it. It was like a belated Christmas gift. Her only regret was not being the one to file the original complaint. Why hadn't she ever thought of doing that?

"Today," the blonde woman continued, "we will be having an exercise in House Unification and Tolerance. Its goal is to teach you all more about one another in the hope that you will discover similarities between yourselves and your classmates." She produced a pile of parchment and diligently handed one to each of them. "Your goal is to find classmates who fit each of these classifications. When you find someone who, say, has the same birth month as you, you will have them initial your parchment."

Hermione had a vague memory of doing this exact same activity in her younger years before Hogwarts. She was really starting to tire of so many "getting to know you" exercises, and she groaned to herself.

"Of course, you will be doing this activity while under a silencing charm." With one of her trademark grins, Amorell swiped her wand in front of them all, said the magic words, and suddenly everyone was attempting to speak without any success whatsoever.

O

Very tricky, Draco mused. Render them incapable of speech and voila! Ministry official lady wouldn't be able to hear their complaints about a certain amoral professor. He gave Amorell a small glare before taking a gander at the parchment she'd handed him.

_Find someone with the same first initial as you._ That was a lucky break, he realized, wandering immediately to Thomas and gesturing to the line. His fellow D name gave him a skeptical look before reluctantly scrawling a quick DT. Draco returned the favor. Meanwhile, Weasley, Moon, and Patil looked rather cross about the first item on the list, while all three H names were gathered together in a huddle that made Draco slightly ill due to all the camaraderie.

_Find someone with the same last initial as you._ Draco eyed Lil' Moon at the exact same time she eyed him. They'd exchanged initials in a business-like manner and moved on without any (non-verbal) questions asked. Patil and Potter paired up, and everyone else gnashed their teeth. It vaguely occurred to him that if this were some sort of contest, he and Potter were tied for the lead.

He quite liked that.

It was when he started moving on to things like favorite color that everything started to get a little more hectic.

O

Hermione was trying to mime to Hannah that her favorite food was salmon, and she was very hastily remembering why she'd never enjoyed playing charades. She had to give up on that one, figuring everyone else was probably busy getting initials for liking chocolate most.

She'd just put a big X to the side when she felt someone tapping at her shoulder, and she turned to find Malfoy hovering over her. He mouthed a "hi" at her before pointing to the twelfth item on the list. Hermione blinked.

_Find someone who likes you._

"What?" she mouthed. He shrugged, gestured broadly around the room, then pointed back to her. She shook her head.

No?

No.

He frowned at her, grabbed her parchment, and signed his own initials under number twelve before marching off in search of item thirteen.

She wanted to sit down.

O

He couldn't exactly blame her, but still. That _hurt_. Draco wandered the room, receiving initials with a much lessened speed now that he'd been reduced to silently snarling at everyone in the room.

What he'd really like to do was get the silencing spell removed and then promptly snarl at Amorell. He bet the Ministry official would love that.

The two in question were sitting and comfortably chatting with one another, and the woman in tweed didn't look to be marking much down on her clipboard. They were doomed unless something went horribly wrong in the next—he checked the clock—eight minutes.

O

Ron pointed to line seventeen, and Hermione absently initialed it for him. That one had wanted someone who'd been to France; Harry had already gotten her to sign that line for him five minutes prior. Ron smiled tentatively and scooped up her parchment to find something to initial in exchange.

Hermione watched as Amorell conjured a cup of tea and offered it to the Ministry official. "What a pleasant exercise. It really _is_ a pleasure to watch them cooperating on such a perfunctory level," the latter woman said, accepting her tea.

Perfunctory? Either the woman was having a Mrs. Malaprop moment or else she really did think that acting routinely and without thought was a good thing in this situation. That could be, Hermione mused. After all, there was a time when getting them to cooperate at all with Malfoy would have been anything but "perfunctory."

Ron's right index finger jammed into her shoulder three times in rapid succession. She turned to look at him. His face was a brilliant shade of red, and he was pointing to item twelve on the list. More specifically, he was pointing to a certain D and M that were lazily scrawled below it. Ron's eyes bulged slightly as Hermione opened and closed her mouth, unable to think what to say and unable to say anything anyway.

O

There was a noisy sound of feet against floor just before the hand descended on Draco's shoulder. He made a roundabout turn, had just enough time to make out the irate figure of Ron Weasley, and then blacked out as a freckled fist collided with his nose, a crunching sound reverberating throughout the silent room.

That hadn't quite been what he'd had in mind.

O

A.N. Sorry, sorry, sorry! Both about the cliffhanger and the fact that this took an entire four weeks to finish. I've had a lot of other writing to do lately, and by the time I finished that other writing, I had mostly forgotten what I had wanted to put in this chapter. Forgive me?

Just to clear up any confusion, the almost-kiss in the second scene was in Hermione's imagination.


	20. Triangles

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 20—Triangles

Hermione waved her hands in front of Amorell's face in a manner that was not exactly meant to be violent but was as she accidentally smacked Padma in the face. The other girl sent her a glare, but otherwise she appeared to be fine.

Amorell blinked, muttered "_Finite incantatem_," and a raucous of voices began immediately, all in mid-sentence.

"—was that for?" Harry was asking Ron.

"—nald Weasley!" August was berating.

"—in the nose!" Hermione was shouting to Amorell. She physically flinched at the sound of her own voice. It was amazing what an hour without the ability to speak could do to a person.

"Oh my!" the ministry official cried, covering her mouth with a short-nailed but well-manicured hand.

It didn't take long for Amorell to snap into action in a way that none of the class had ever witnessed from her before. "Mr. Potter? Take Mr. Malfoy to the Hospital Wing. Mr. Weasley, an explanation for this blatant show of intolerance, if you will!"

Hermione watched on as Harry hauled Malfoy to his feet. The blond boy was blinking dazedly, apparently just regaining consciousness after being out of it for a few seconds. A thick stream of bright red blood was dribbling down his lips, over his chin, and onto his robes. He wobbled, but Harry caught him. Odd, Hermione's feet were moving of their own accord, and she caught Malfoy's other arm.

Ron shook his hand, wincing, and he sent Hermione a frown. "Why does your parchment—" he began, but he stopped himself, sending a reflexive gaze to August.

"How should I know?" Hermione asked. Well, she did know… but she wasn't about to tell Ron of all people!

"What about your parchment?" Harry asked, catching Malfoy again as he slumped.

"Something stupid, that's all!" Hermione said. "Come on, let's get him to Madam Pomfrey!"

Harry nodded reluctantly and they set out on their journey. The fact that Amorell had not asked Hermione to go along was stuffed into a far corner of her brain.

O

Draco thanked any deity he'd ever heard of that Madam Pomfrey knew how to fix broken noses without said noses ending up Eloise Midgen-style. He sat on one of the hospital wing beds, wiping blood from his mouth and sporting a black eye that would be gone within the hour.

"Really," Potter was asking, "what was on your parchment?"

"It was nothing—he overreacted. You know how Ron gets. It was stupid, really."

Draco snorted and then winced considerably. Not a good idea, apparently. A lovely globule of blood and mucus slipped down the back of his nose and into his throat. "Some hypocrite he is, anyway," he stated.

Granger sent him a pleading, furious, skeptical look, all wrapped up into one. "What do you mean?" she asked carefully.

"I mean, I saw him snogging Moon in the library yesterday. Bloody hypocritical of him, reacting the way he did."

Potter had this odd expression on his face, as if he were trying to put together a puzzle that wasn't entirely making sense. "How is that hyp—" he began.

Granger's eyes went wide. "He what?"

"Slipped his tongue down her throat in between Historical Fiction and Greek Mythology. It was too much of a sight to behold—had to shut my eyes lest they become imprinted with the grotesque image."

She stamped her foot, her cheeks turning red. "Is that—Harry, do you know anything about this?"

Potter opened his mouth and closed it again. "He didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

Potter shifted from one foot to the other. "He and August got together over break. She, er, came over to the Burrow for Christmas dinner." He winced away automatically, seeming to expect a verbal assault, but Granger was biting her lip, her eyes squeezed shut.

"The jumper," she murmured. "The _journal_. Hmph!" She opened her eyes. "So that's what he meant when he wrote me about being friends. It means he's moved on."

"Well," Potter began, lifting one finger in the air, "not completely, apparently… if I'm getting the whole hypocritical thing right." Granger looked as if she were about to refute anything that came out of his mouth. "I mean, he did defend you." Granger relaxed.

"Defend. Right." She breathed a sigh of relief.

Draco was torn between correcting the Boy-Who-Got-Much-Glory and protecting himself from another broken nose—whether from Granger for spilling the beans or Potter for having the audacity to like his best friend, no matter if the kind of like had not been specified on the parchment.

Stupid word: like. Like, really stupid.

Potter checked his watch. "We should really get to Potions. Candanver might be awake today."

"Doubtful," Draco muttered, hopping down from the bed.

Potter shook his head. "Saw him drink two mugs of coffee this morning."

And that was as civil as the two of them got.

O

Candanver was out like a light when Hermione, Harry and Malfoy arrived in the dank Potion's classroom. Ron was missing, but Ginny had saved them a bench—them excluding Malfoy, who wandered off to sit by himself, having more or less been exiled from the Slytherin House.

"I heard Ron punched the daylights out of Malfoy," Ginny said calmly, not even bothering to make a potion. "Looks like he has some daylights left, though," she added, sending Harry a teasing pout.

Hermione made a fuss over getting out her cauldron and ingredients, trying to stay out of Ginny's line of questioning.

"I do like his black eye, though," Ginny added.

Harry shrugged lightly. "It's starting to clear up. It was worse a few minutes ago."

"So," Ginny asked, setting her elbow on the tabletop and her head in her hand, "what started it?"

"Ask her," Harry replied, and Hermione felt a lead weight drop into her stomach as he jerked his thumb in her direction.

"Well?" Ginny asked, as Hermione continued to flip through her textbook, trying to find an agreeable potion.

"It's stupid, really," she reiterated. She paused briefly to chew on her lip, trying to decide whether to tell the truth or no. She wasn't exactly known for her acting skills, and no doubt Ron would be more than willing to clear up any confusion for them later. "You had Amorell's class this morning, right?"

Ginny nodded. "Find someone who something-somethings like you. Yeah."

"Right," Hermione said, clearing her throat a little. She cast a wary gaze in Malfoy's direction. No doubt he was listening in. "So line twelve…."

"Twelve?" Harry asked. "What one was that? The one about pets?"

"Er, no. It was the, er, find someone who likes you one," she admitted.

Ginny covered her mouth and snorted. "Seriously?" she asked, her voice carrying a little too far for Hermione's self-comfort. "So what? You signed his parchment for him? Goodness knows no one else would. The git," she added.

Hermione felt something like guilt curdling in her stomach along with the remains of her lunch. "Um, no. See, he signed mine."

"Only after you refused to sign mine," Malfoy's voice floated from a few seats forward, though he hadn't exactly raised his voice. It was at a normal speaking level.

"So," Harry said, moving one of his fingers one way and the other in the opposite, "he signed your parchment voluntarily, admitting to liking you?" Why wouldn't anyone keep their voices down? "And Ron obviously overreacted." A light seemed to go off in his head. "You don't think Ron thought that meant Malfoy _likes_ you in a boy-girl sort of way?"

It wasn't so much a matter of thinking as knowing. "Probably," she admitted. If only they knew. Thank Heaven they didn't.

Harry cast a cursory glance in Malfoy's direction. "You don't suppose he does, do you? That's a sick idea," he mumbled, thankfully too low for anyone besides them to hear.

"Why _sick_, exactly?" she asked, trying to beat down the blush that was rising on her face, the indignation that Harry thought it was wrong for Malfoy to like her, and the very odd and very sudden daydream of she and Malfoy huddled together in the Common Room with a good book and a cozy blanket. She blinked.

"It's Malfoy," Harry responded, shrugging. "Though I must admit, the irony is kind of nice. Him liking you after all that's been said and done over the years."

Ginny nodded in agreement before suddenly looking up at Hermione and pointing. "Merlin! That day! That day when Ron and Harry weren't here and Malfoy came over and—Merlin! He convinced you to break things off with Ron! _Hermione!_" she said, looking close to something between laughter and shock.

"What's this?" Harry asked, looking supremely confused.

"Malfoy came over and started telling us all about how Ron had kissed August—just after Hermione and I had been talking about their relationship and how she was starting to doubt it…." Ginny looked stunned. "I thought he was just being a git. He was being a self-promoting git! He hasn't done anything else, has he?"

"For the love of Hogwarts, keep your voice down!" Hermione fumed, now positively beet red. Malfoy was half-turned in his seat, watching them.

"He has, hasn't he?" Ginny asked, obeying Hermione's request. Harry was staring down Malfoy now.

"No," Hermione said, though it sounded feeble even to her own ears.

"Nothing?" Ginny asked skeptically. "No weird looks or anything?"

"Nothing," Hermione garbled. She turned back to her textbook and flipped to the index with shaking hands.

Malfoy was still watching her.

O

Well this was an interesting turn of events, Draco pondered. He supposed that if he had ever wanted any sort of relationship—creepy word, that—with Granger, her friends would have had to find out eventually, but the knowledge that they now suspected he did have feelings for her was not exactly sitting well with him.

At least no one else seemed to buy that explanation. Well, no one besides Astoria, that is.

"So, Weasley punched you, did he? I wonder whatever for," she mused as they sat in the Great Hall.

He didn't respond. He was really starting to hate mealtimes. She was the only one who'd sit next to him, and that certainly wasn't his choice. Thankfully, she, the underhanded and sneaky Slytherin that she was, only engaged him in conversation when it suited her.

"You can't tell he did much now. That's lucky for you. Wouldn't want it getting far that you were manhandled by one of those brutes." She took a dainty sip of pumpkin juice, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. "Did she at least mother you a bit about your injury?"

Draco closed his eyes. He could almost imagine he was elsewhere this way.

"Aw, silence. I'll take that as a no."

Had Granger mothered him? She'd been concerned enough to accompany him to the Hospital Wing, but it wasn't as if she'd done so much as apologize. Of course, she'd been a little preoccupied with playing cover-up-the-big-fat-mess. But she'd definitely looked guilty, hadn't she?

"Think of the bright side. If the great red Weasel takes a pillow and smothers you in your sleep, she'll probably allow herself a tear or two at the funeral out of pity."

Ability to ignore over. Draco swung himself in his seat to face the impudent Sixth Year. His eyes slanted, his brows lowered, and his nose wrinkled up. "I'd watch what I say if I were you."

She had the audacity to laugh. "What? You can't use your wand, you can't exactly access your vaults, you haven't got anyone willing to do your dirty work anymore, and you're far too noble to hit a girl. What would you do? Or, more importantly, what worse could I do? I'd watch what I say if I were you."

And she turned her back to him as if he were some common fool with a half-rate pedigree and half a knut to his name.

To think she'd once entertained ideas of dating him.

O

Hermione felt awful. She couldn't manage to stomach more than a roll at dinner, and the conversation going on between Harry and Ginny concerning whether or not Malfoy did fancy her was certainly not helping her regain her appetite.

Once Ron arrived, the two hushed. He looked warily around before sitting between Dean and Harry, averting his eyes from hers.

Hermione cleared her throat after a moment of everyone at the table looking between them. "So you're with August now?" she asked, making a brilliant attempt at appearing to be nonchalant, pushing a piece of chicken around her plate.

Ron didn't reply, tugging at his collar a bit, but he did nod.

"Good," she said, and she was genuinely surprised at how sincere she sounded. She didn't feel sincere. Not really. She made a jab at her chicken with her fork, and the prongs clinked against the china. "How'd you get together?"

Ron made a show of spooning mashed potatoes onto his plate as he spoke, not making eye-contact with her. "Met up at Diagon Alley when I was with my mum and she was with hers. They got to talking, and the two of us got a bite at the Leaky Cauldron." If there was anything more to say about it, she was going to have to get the details out of either Harry or Ginny—or August herself, she belatedly realized—because Ron was certainly not looking keen on discussing any more details of his new relationship with her.

Hermione reached to fill her water goblet, and her bracelet tinkled against the handle of the pitcher.

Did it really have to remind her of both of them?

The tiny silver figurine glinted in the light, and Hermione stopped to glance across the Great Hall. Malfoy seemed to be giving Astoria Greengrass the cold shoulder and otherwise appeared completely bored. There wasn't so much as a trace of evidence that he'd had a broken nose earlier in the day.

Why hadn't she just signed his insipid parchment? He wouldn't—correction, probably wouldn't—have signed hers if she had, then Ron wouldn't have seen Malfoy's initials and subsequently seen red. Then again, he might have signed Malfoy's parchment later…. That wouldn't have gone entirely well either.

She wasn't deep enough in denial to be unable to admit to herself that a main contributor of her stomachache was due to the fact that she'd not only been the instigator of Malfoy's injury but also the instigator of a different type of injury. An emotional injury.

She did like him. On some twisted level of reality within her brain, shelved at the back next to the realization that House-Elves really didn't want to be freed, was the tiny and meek acknowledgment of this truth.

He'd had enough emotional injuries lately as it was. It had not been so very long since she'd overheard him crying. No matter if he had been a git over the years, he still deserved some form of friendship. Some admission of being cared for by someone in this school. Perhaps not even so much as cared for as not disliked.

Merlin. At this point, he probably counted her as a best friend, considering his relationship with her compared to his relationship with the rest of the school. And she hadn't exactly lived up to the part.

"So why'd you do it?" Dean asked, and Hermione was snapped out of her reverie. She caught on quickly enough as Ron laid his right palm on the table. His knuckles looked bruised.

"He's a slimy git," he offered, not sounding the least bit convincing and actually just a tad resigned. Hermione silently thanked him for not going into detail. The last thing she needed was for the entire student body to be whispering about a love triangle that—to their knowledge, anyway—didn't have any basis other than Ron's quick jealousy.

O

Draco made his way into the Common Room after having taken care of the day's homework, and he was surprised to find Potter sitting alone there. The black-haired boy cleared his throat. "You got a minute?"

Draco nodded briefly.

"I just wanted you to know, whatever that was about earlier, I'll make sure Ron doesn't do anything to you while you're unarmed."

Draco's mouth thinned into a straight line. "Appreciated." He retreated to the spiral staircase, pausing briefly when he reached the foot of the stairs to listen to the light-hearted giggles echoing from the girls' dormitory.

O

It took Hermione three books from the library before she found just the right spell, and she memorized it quickly before making her way to the Owlery. The floor was strewn with droppings and owl pellets and more feathers than could stuff a pillow.

She felt incredibly nervous, sneaking about behind Harry and Ron's backs. But at the same time, the nerves were cancelled out by the relief she felt at doing something to assuage her guilt.

The spell was simple, not so different from the other flower-conjuring spell she'd used the last time, and the purple hyacinth dropped into her hand easily. She took a piece of scratch parchment from her bag and wrote down its name, affixing the label to the stem before dropping flower and all into a piece of brown paper, rolling that up, and neatly sealing the ends and sides with a bit of Spellotape.

She hesitated a bit before writing "Draco Malfoy" on the front of the package and attaching it to an anonymous school owl's leg. The owl flew off into the already-gathering swarm of delivery owls, ready to greet the students at breakfast.

O

Draco actually jumped when the tawny owl came into a landing in front of him, barely stopping before it reached his plate. It stuck out its leg, looking completely bored.

Draco gave the thing a bit of sausage and removed his parcel. It wasn't from his mother, anyway. Who'd be sending him post? Goyle?

His name was written in precise handwriting, and he blinked. He knew that writing. He still had the "love-in-a-mist" label she'd given him.

The flower had a straight green stem and a cylindrical grouping of blossoms in a crisp shade of lavender. "This is a purple hyacinth."

There was a snort beside him, and he found a fifth year boy leaning over him. "Hey, look, Malfoy's got a flower. Isn't that sweet?" he cooed. "You got a secret admirer, do you?"

While outwardly he was scowling, inwardly, he wondered if he did.

O

Draco's finger slid down the listing in the herbology book, and he stopped at the correct entry.

Purple Hyacinth: please forgive me.

O

A.N.: There was some scene I wanted to put in there, but now I really can't remember what it was. Huh. Oh well! This is now officially my second longest fic, and it should move up to longest if I have anything to say about it!


	21. An Upward Spiral in a Downward Fall

8 & 8th—Chapter 21—An Upward Spiral in a Downward Fall

"That was weird," Harry commented as he joined Hermione on their way to dinner one Sunday evening.

"What was?" She was trying to walk and study her NEWT preparation guide at the same time, and multi-tasking any more might just be harmful for her health—should she walk into a wall, that is

"Malfoy. I was in the boys' dorm and he came walking out of the loo with a flower in his hand!" He snorted. "Like I said, _weird_."

Hermione blinked. "A flower?" she asked, her pulse starting to race. "The _loo?_"

"I know! I wonder where he got it from. Maybe he picked it from the greenhouse and was giving it some water." Harry made a face. "Doesn't make any sense any way you look at it. Unless…." He gave her a meaningful look and a wink.

"Please don't suggest he picked it to give to me," she groaned. Ever since Ron had punched Malfoy, Ginny and Harry had been taking every advantage they could to find proof that a certain blond-haired git fancied her, even if most of their observations were their idea of a joke.

Hermione thanked Merlin and anyone else that they were not taking the idea too seriously. They'd been riled up at first, but now they seemed to find it funny and nothing else.

"Well, if you find a flower at some point, you'll know where it came from," he teased. She most certainly would.

Ron was currently away for another brutal practice session to prepare for a game against the Holyhead Harpies, which was, curiously enough, scheduled for Valentine's Day, which was now only a couple of weeks away. In general, Hermione had to admit that life was much less stressful for her when he was away. She still had to room with August, but luckily the other girl wasn't one to drone on and on about her boyfriend in front of his ex-girlfriend.

Hermione was happy for them… sort of. It was nice to see Ron moving on after she'd ended their relationship so abruptly. He did deserve love, she just wasn't sure she was the best person to give it to him. But the green-eyed monster wasn't so easily tamed.

She gave up trying to read, think, walk, and talk to Harry at the same time, and lowered her NEWT guide just in time to see Padma approaching them.

"I cannot believe it!" she seethed, clutching a letter in her hand and shaking it.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked carefully. A fuming Padma, she'd learned, was not the easiest person to get along with.

Padma took a large breath and let it out slowly. "I'm going to be an aunt," she stated, crossing her arms and waiting for either of them to comment.

Harry opened his mouth and closed it, looking to Hermione for guidance. "Parvati?" Hermione asked.

"Parvati," Padma confirmed. She slid one of her hands over her face. "She's not even nineteen yet and she's married and having a baby and hasn't finished her schooling! And she's living in the States! What's _wrong_ with her?"

"She's… in love?" Harry guessed.

Padma threw him an angry look. "I just don't get how she can be so stupid. They barely dated. They as good as eloped. And he's eight years older than us! How can she think that being so… so _frivolous_ can be a good idea?" she spat. "I know her and I know she's going to regret this, and it's already too late! I swear, I'm going to date my future husband for at least three years before I tie the knot!" And with that, Padma stormed off down the hallway.

"She's so… supportive," Harry murmured.

Hermione nodded in agreement. "I can see where she's coming from, though," she admitted. "We're still awfully young, and marriage is a big commitment. You need to be sure about these things."

Harry looked at her. "Being unsure, is that why you and Ron…?"

She blushed. "It's part of it, besides the cheating thing," she admitted.

Harry nodded uncomfortably, and they arrived in the Great Hall.

O

Amorell had not been fired. Apparently, her quick response to the "emergency" situation in their class had been enough to override any doubt the ministry had about her teaching skills.

That, in a word, sucked. But Draco was able to look on the bright side: he'd still be partnered with Granger for the rest of the year. What a lovely compromise.

Speaking of whom, he had a flower for her, but he hadn't quite figured out a method for delivering it to her. He couldn't just leave it on her doorstep, not unless he wanted everyone to know about it, which he most definitely didn't. These flowers were for her eyes only.

So what would it be? Opening her bedroom door, braving the awful itch, and throwing it on her bed in hope that she didn't squash it when she laid down to sleep? Accidentally bumping into her in the hallway, causing her to drop her bag, and slipping it in surreptitiously along with one of her books? Owl it to her? Hope that he could get her alone and then just give her the bloody thing?

This being romantic thing was an absolute pain.

Once dinner was over, he watched her stand and exit the Great Hall, and he tried to act as casually as possible as he left a few seconds after her.

She was alone, thank Merlin. He very carefully removed the flower from his bag and held it in his right hand.

O

Hermione almost jolted when she felt the sudden soft coolness of petals and leaves being pressed into her hand, and she looked up to see Malfoy walking by her, looking completely at ease. For one half of a second, his fingers had brushed against her own.

What was it about his fingers that made her breath hitch in her throat and her heart start racing?

She glanced around, checking to make sure no one was paying her any attention before she took a glance at the flower tucked into her palm. It was a vine flower, similar to a vetch or a pea plant. During her perusal of the flower list, she'd wondered if he might send her a kennedia, and so he had. It meant, simply, intellectual beauty.

She wasn't sure what to do anymore. These flowers. These rotten, romantic, thoughtful flowers. What was a girl supposed to do when she was being wooed by a boy she didn't want to like in a manner that was too—she couldn't find a better word—sweet to ignore?

Intellectual beauty! It made her almost want to laugh and sob in the same breath. Goodness knew she wasn't one of the girls who fussed constantly over their looks, and she certainly was known for her brains. So what did it mean exactly? That she was only beautiful on the inside? That her intellect was beautiful? Was she merely blowing things out of proportion?

She took a breath, letting it out slowly. Sooner or later, this coquetry was going to have to stop. Or else… or else something else would have to happen, and she couldn't allow it.

O

The first thing Draco noticed when he woke that morning was the sun shining brightly in through the bewitched windows in their dormitory. Even fake sun was better than no sun at all, and he stood there staring out for five minutes until he heard Thomas start rustling through his trunk in search of a clean robe.

He missed the sun, even if he weren't exactly well-known for basking in it due to his years in the dungeons and his pale skin. He hadn't been playing Quidditch, so he'd been more cooped up in the castle than usual, and even the nonexistent warmth of the fake rays were enough to make him feel marginally optimistic about the day. Fake vitamin d was better than none at all, apparently.

And so, here it was. A Monday. And Mondays meant one thing: Good Grief class.

Why that suddenly made him smile, he hadn't the foggiest.

O

"Hello, Eighth Years," Amorell greeted, walking into the classroom with a skip in her step and settling onto the edge of her desk. She was barefoot today, which struck Hermione as odd considering the cold stone floor. "Lovely day," she continued, "so I thought I'd offer a little break from the norm. Today you'll be spending time with your partners." She smiled sweetly at them.

Hermione raised her hand. "Isn't that what we've been doing? How is that a 'break from the norm?'"

"Oh, Miss Granger, always so inquisitive. But to answer your question, you'll all be leaving the classroom." She got up and tapped her wand briskly against the blackboard. "And you'll be trying to find one of each of these items."

Hermione blinked at the list on the board. A scavenger hunt?

"I suggest you copy these down. You'll have till the end of class, and any couple who finds all of the items will be rewarded with a small prize. Oh, and yes, Miss Moon, you will be partnering with me," she added, effectively freezing August's hand mid-raise. Professor Amorell tapped the board again, and another line was added at the bottom of the list, beside an asterisk. _Absolutely no use of magic to find, retrieve, or create these items. Please leave all wands in the classroom._

Ahead of her, Malfoy looked slightly relieved, tucking his wand into his school bag before joining her. "Got them down?" he asked, plucking her parchment out of her hand. "Any idea where to find a piece of mistletoe after Christmas?" Was it her imagination, or was there a sparkle in his eye as he asked?

"Oak tree," she croaked, her cheeks growing suddenly and inexplicably red. "It grows wild in oak trees."

"Right," he said, nodding. "Best get started then. After you." He gestured toward the door.

From experience, Hermione was already aware of the fact that being alone with Draco Malfoy tended to produce strange results. For example, there were goose bumps on the back of her neck. Also, there was the urge to run, which was contrasted by the fact that he was currently acting surprisingly gentlemanly, opening the classroom door for her and following her out.

The sound of the others' voices faded as they continued down the hall, and Hermione was becoming acutely aware of the clip-clap of their footsteps bouncing in echo from floor to ceiling. Awkward might have been a gentle way of describing how it felt to be alone with him. Again. It was easier when she could avoid him or hide in the comfort of a group, but at the moment she was stuck with him for the duration of the class.

They reached the Entrance Hall, and Malfoy pulled one of the double doors open to the outside, and they both blinked into the bright light. There were a couple of wispy clouds, but otherwise the sky was clear, and as they walked out onto the grounds, Hermione breathed in a breath of the crisp air, even as the sun beat down on her cheeks. She could have just stood there and let the rare weather soak into her if she could, but they had a job to do.

O

They bent around the lake, which had a thin layer of ice covering the surface still from the last freeze, and Granger paused to pick a smooth, white stone with pink veins from the shore, crossing it off of their list. "Quartz," she murmured. "Actually, quartzite, but it'll do." She nodded to herself and tucked it into her cloak pocket.

"What else do we need to find?" he asked, watching her from the side.

She shoved a lock of her hair behind her ear, her hand shaking slightly. "A gobstone, a pheasant quill, a _flobberworm_ of all things, and a tuft of fur. I can get the last two from Hagrid without much difficulty."

"Or from your cat, fur-wise," he pointed out. "And we're in luck. I happen to have a set of gobstones and a pheasant quill back in my room."

"I can't say I'm surprised." They stopped short when they'd arrived at a large oak tree, and she pointed up at a cluster in the branches. "Mistletoe."

Draco frowned, looking up at the poisonous, parasitic clump of yuletide gaiety. "Bit high to reach without magic, isn't it?" He walked a few paces to the left before catching sight of a lower one, and he reached an arm up, jumping experimentally. It was still a bit too high up. "Any suggestions?"

Granger bit her lip, looking around them. "I suppose one of us could try to climb the tree, except, well," she gestured, allowing her idea to trail off. The trunk was wide, and there wasn't a V to act as a foothold until just above his head.

"Hmm."

O

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Hermione asked as Malfoy stared at her with his lips curled together to the side of his face in an expression of deep-thought.

He smiled slightly. "You like to raise your arm, don't you, Granger?"

Hermione shifted her weight. "Your point?"

He tapped his chin. "I see two possibilities, but I'm not sure how much you'll like either of them. I can either help you up into the tree, so you can climb out and snag a handful or I could lift you up from down here. Your choice." Hermione felt herself freeze. "_Or_ I suppose you could lift me up, but I'm not too partial to falling over, even if I would be falling onto you." That was enough to snap her out of her temporary stupor and glower at him.

"Since we don't have a pair of long-handled shears, I suppose I'll have to agree to one of your options," she snipped.

"And which one might that be?" he asked, smirking dandily.

She stepped across the cold earth, only a thin layer of snow scattered about, and paused to survey the clump of mistletoe in question. "I'm not especially good at climbing," she admitted. "So… so I guess you'll have to lift me up a bit from here." When she'd turned back to him, though, his smirk hadn't grown the way she'd expected it to. Instead he took three steps forward until they were both under the mistletoe, and the implication of their position wasn't exactly lost on her.

"Well, then. You might want to take off your cloak." Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. "Because I don't very well want it flopping into my face," he added. "Same goes for your robe, if you don't mind."

It was at this moment that Hermione became extremely grateful that she'd chosen to wear trousers instead of a skirt today, and she blushed as she laid her hulky cloak and her robe in a pile. Why she'd chosen a short-sleeved shirt today was now beyond her. Sun or no sun, it was still nippy out. He bent down on one knee before her—another implication that she wasn't entirely blind to—and held his hands in criss-cross for her to use as a step. "Hold onto my shoulder," he instructed, and she stepped onto his hand, and suddenly, he'd straightened so that she was several feet off the ground, balancing precariously. Her freehand reached up and gave a tug at one of the green shoots, a leaf or so falling to the ground before she managed to break off a piece. With her extra tug though, she'd lost some of her footing, and before she knew it, she was slipping down through the circle of Malfoy's arms until she landed squarely in front of him.

His hands were at either side of her ribcage, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat and didn't seem to want to come back. He looked down at her, seeming just as surprised by their sudden position as she felt.

"I…" she began, and made a sudden scramble to get away from him, but his grip tightened.

"Do I scare you so much?" he asked, his thumbs gliding over her ribs in lazy arcs.

"Well, it's just…." She stopped, a lump in her throat.

"I've been thinking," he said, staring down at her, "about that prophecy." The prophecy? "And you know what I realized? It's worded rather oddly. You see, Trelawney said we'd fall in love, but she didn't necessarily say it would be with one another. She also said it would be by the end of the year. Funny how we both took that to mean the end of the school year."

Hermione opened her mouth—he was right. He was absolutely right. He adjusted his hold on her and moved a finger to her lips.

"So you see, we wouldn't be proving her right. Not really." He lowered his head. "So… please?"

Hermione was breathing hollowly by now, her breaths coming with great difficulty.

Without breaking eye contact with her, he picked up her left hand and pressed a kiss into her palm, and Hermione felt a jolt go straight down her middle. He gave her fingers a squeeze before moving his lips to the inner crook of her elbow, lingering a moment on the bare curve of her bicep. He took a step even closer to her, and then his lips pressed lightly to the corner of her left shoulder before descending upon the juncture between her shoulder and neck. Like lightning, goose bumps washed over her right leg, and he drew back, a hand on each of her shoulders, looking at her.

Her breath wasn't coming at all as Malfoy threaded his fingers into the hair at the base of her skull to cradle her head. She felt utterly hypnotized and could only stand there, breath coming wispishly as his head lowered, and for the first time in either real life or daydream, his lips pressed into hers.

The mistletoe dropped from her hand onto the snow-specked ground.

O

They were kissing. His fingers were warm as they cradled the back of her head, where the hairs grew soft, unexposed to the elements.

He remembered these lips. The curve of the upper and the pout of the lower. The way they were unadorned. He tentatively melded his own to hers, softness sinking into softness, warmth into warmth.

Her hands had been at her sides, but she raised them to hold either side of his ribcage in mirror to how he'd been holding her moments earlier.

Their noses rubbed against one another as he opened his mouth the slightest bit, nibbling his lips around hers.

There had been a time not so long ago when he would have scoffed at the idea that she was the girl he'd want to hold. But here he was now, cherishing her… savoring her. If this never ended, it would be too soon.

There was a whimper from her, and he moved gently to the corner of her mouth to allow her a breath before kissing her with added vigor, his head tilted to the side. She shivered, and he lowered one of his arms to press her into him.

Draco didn't know anything of the afterlife, where the soul went when it had been banished. But Heaven, he thought, must be something like kissing Hermione Granger.

A.N. This chapter gave me trouble you would not believe. But they kissed! Yippee! So I'm making a deal with you all. I'm posting this a bit earlier than I normally would, and I'm asking that you allow me a few weeks off to write twenty pages for school. Yes. Twenty.


	22. Panic

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 22—Panic

Malfoy wrapped his cloak around her shoulders, drawing her even closer to him. Hermione felt dizzy, lost, and yet… _eerily content._ His lips formed around hers, melding them together and drawing them apart again.

There was something very natural and sweet about being in his arms. Goodness knew it shouldn't be. But he was warm, his chest surprisingly sinewy, his arms tight and comforting around her.

She should probably push him away. She really should.

It was when she felt the warm, wet sponginess of his taste buds drawing a trail across the crease between her lips that she finally surrendered to her conscious self and yanked her head back. He blinked at her, looking slightly surprised, his mouth still open with his tongue just barely peeking out.

His tongue that had almost been in her mouth.

Now would be a wonderful time to feel sick. Too bad she felt anything but.

He closed his mouth. "I wondered when your brain would take over again."

Hermione tried to scowl and failed. He was still holding her, and it still felt _nice_. That could be evidence of a psychiatric disorder. With luck.

"We're in class," she gibbered. "Scavenger hunt." That was all her brain could come up with? How was she supposed to beat him in their NEWTs if that was all her brain could come up with?

His hands slid up and down her arms, his thumbs briefly tucking into the crooks of her elbows. "True." He suddenly stopped his movements, let go of her arms, and ducked behind her to pick up her discarded robe and cloak, handing them back to her before grabbing up the spray of mistletoe.

Hermione was in serious trouble. Trouble with a capital T that rhymes with D that stands for Draco Malfoy.

O

They were silent on the trek to that oaf Hagrid's hut, and Granger was _jittery_. She wouldn't look at him, and she was shaking in a way he couldn't really attribute to the fact that it was February. It was more like she'd had one too many cups of coffee, needed a pee, and was about to make her singing debut without knowing all the lyrics.

Despite it all, she managed to knock on the door and ask for a flobberworm, Hagrid looking over her shoulder and staring at Draco with a muddled expression.

Once that was over, they started back toward the castle in quest of his gobstones, pheasant quill, and a bit of her cat's fur.

"Granger," he began, after they'd passed by Amorell and Moon, who were just now flitting through the main entrance.

"I'd rather not talk right now," she mumbled, speeding up her pace so that he was forced to lengthen his stride to keep up.

"Right," he replied, eyeing her. He really hadn't known what to expect from her. He was pleased enough that she'd even allowed his lips to actually touch hers this time. He'd been enthralled that she'd kept the kiss going for as long as it had. And it had been wonderful—for him. He wasn't sure about her. He'd never kissed anyone before who hadn't been begging for it, and Merlin knew Granger had not been begging for it. Pansy had begged for it. MacDougal had begged for it. With Granger he'd barely even gotten permission. Had he gotten permission?

Why was he even worrying about getting her permission? Wasn't he supposed to be the villain here?

And why, he wondered, had he chosen to tell her what he'd realized about the prophecy? About its deadline being the end of the year. About it not specifying that they'd have to fall in love specifically with one another.

Had he or had he not just dug himself into a hole by saying that they wouldn't be proving Trelawney right? Because even without those stipulations, would a kiss really indicate them falling in love?

A kiss was just a kiss, right?

O

"Harry?" Hermione asked, once class was over, she and Malfoy had each won a mug with a big # 1 in glittering rainbow ink, and she was again safely cloistered in the common room, no blond hair in sight.

"Hmm?" he asked, flipping through a Quidditch magazine that she knew for a fact he'd already read cover to cover four times.

"Harry, I—I need to tell you something." She had to tell _someone_.

"Yeah?" He didn't set the magazine down, and Hermione rose to pace in front of him, slowly but surely wearing a tread in the rug that lay overtop the old tile floor. He looked up, finally, setting the magazine down. "Something… wrong?" he asked, looking uncomfortable.

Hermione stopped, flushed, and started pacing again. "We kissed," she said in a rush.

"Who—?"

"Actually, you know, there's this fine line between a kiss and a snog, and it might've been crossed, but I don't know!" She was pacing fairly fast now, her hands curling and uncurling around the fabric of her robe.

"Hermione, wh—"

"It doesn't matter. It doesn't. I'm just trying to tell you that Malfoy and I snogged is all, and—"

Now Harry was on his feet. "_What?_" Hermione stopped long enough to blink at him, and he caught her shoulders. "He what?" Harry demanded.

Hermione's voice had disappeared again. "Kissed me," she said softly, barely a lamb's bleat. She tore away from his grasp to curl into a ball on the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees.

Harry was stunned, standing there staring down at her. "You're not joking, are you?"

There was a buildup of something at the pit of Hermione's throat, and she shook her head no, feeling the warning sensation of warmth just behind and below her eyes. The tears came, and she let them, blinking them down her cheeks. "He likes me," she whispered.

"I should hope so," Harry muttered, still sounding wooden.

"Well, aren't you going to ask?"

"Ask what?"

"If I like him back," she said, curling herself farther inward.

Harry sounded even more baffled than before. "Do you?"

She shook her head, then clutched it. "Maybe," she whimpered.

She felt as if her head were about to explode. She felt like a hypocrite. Her primary reason for breaking up with Ron had not been because he had kissed August. It had been because she could not cope with the idea of a future with him. And now, kissing Malfoy, letting Malfoy be near her, letting him be nice to her, letting him—perhaps—take over Ron's previous job title… it was like taking a step back from Ron. If she couldn't bear the idea of being married to Ron someday, then it should be blatantly obvious that there was no future for her and Malfoy.

So why did she have an itch to give it a go if she knew it was already doomed?

Hermione was not the type to casually date anyone. Hermione was the _find someone perfect and commit_ type.

All right, so there had been a couple exceptions. She'd gone out with Viktor, though she'd never planned to be serious with him. She'd only been fifteen, though, and it had been her first foray with dating. And he'd been the one to ask her out. It had been polite to accept. It had been flattering to have been asked. But even then she'd been hoping Ron would ask her first.

And then there was McLaggen. No explanation necessary in that particular case.

Malfoy had already proved himself to be ten shades of evil in the past, and yet here she was, crying to Harry, almost as if she were asking for his permission. Almost as if she were giving her confession to absolve herself of hypocritical sins.

Harry seemed a bit too stunned to do anything helpful, though. After she'd sat there for a minute or so, he finally jerked himself into a kneeling position in front of her, placing one of his hands lightly on the back of her shoulder, unsure of himself. She imagined he might say "There, there." He might say that if he were a middle-aged woman, that is. Instead he said, in typical Harry fashion, "Er." He said that an awful lot, now that she came to think about it. "So does that mean you don't want me to do something about it?"

"What sort of something?" she mumbled, scraping the back of her hand over her eyes.

"Threaten him… tell McGonagall… something like that?" Now it was as if he were the one asking for permission.

She shook her head, making herself slightly dizzy. "No. He didn't do anything wrong, really."

"Hermione, you're crying," Harry stated obviously. "He must have done _something_ wrong. You certainly didn't just let him. Did you?" he added, looking almost puce at the idea.

Suddenly, discussing this with Harry was starting to look like a very bad idea, even if he was staying gloriously level-headed. She'd really rather not go over details with him. "Define 'just let.'"

Harry looked skeptically at her. "What are you going to tell Ron?" At the look on Hermione's face, Harry scowled. "You are going to tell him, aren't you?"

"Would you if you were in my place? Remember how nervous you felt about telling Ron you liked Ginny? _This is worse_."

Harry made a face. "I cannot believe we're having this conversation! Even if he has been on good behavior," and the way he said it made it obvious he was alluding to the prison type of good behavior, "that doesn't mean he isn't still his nasty self."

Hermione hung her head. "I know," she groaned. "But you don't know about everything. He's been—" she stopped herself short.

"What?"

"Well, you know how the other day you saw him with a flower?"

"Yeah?" Harry stopped. "You mean it _was _for you?" At her nod, Harry rubbed his hand over his face. "Has he gone mental? I can understand if he just wanted a snog, but—"

"Harry!" Hermione reprimanded, crossing her arms in front of her.

"But, er, well, it is a bit out of character for him. A lot out of character for him," he corrected himself. "If you don't want me to do anything about it, what are you going to do about it? You can't honestly tell me you're just going to up and start dating the git."

That, Hermione thought to herself, was a very weird idea. And yet, didn't it mirror those fantasies she'd been having? Going to the library and holding hands? Sitting in the common room together?

But it couldn't ever happen.

Or could it? He had no reputation to speak of anymore, and she'd already told one out of the two people she should, theoretically, want to keep this from the most, hadn't she?

Hypocrite, hypocrite, _hypocrite!_

She really shouldn't be entertaining the idea in the first place, and yet in her mind, she was already seating that idea at a table and asking it whether it would prefer one lump or two.

Where was her brain today?

"I don't know," she answered honestly.

Harry sighed. "I guess I can't make you tell Ron, but I really do think you should, and not just because I'm sure he'd break more than just Malfoy's nose this time." He smiled cheekily, though it didn't quite smooth out the stress lines around his eyes. "I can't believe he actually wrote his initials on your paper!"

"Yeah, I know." Hermione stood and checked her reflection in Harry's glasses. Her eyes were still red. Oh well. "I think I'll go take a nap."

She felt uneasy going down the spiral stairs. It had been dumb luck that no one had walked in on her conversation with Harry. Where Malfoy was right now, she couldn't say. She was just grateful he wasn't waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.

Funny, she thought, as she stared a moment at the door to the boys' dormitory. Funny that she was even thinking romantically about someone she referred to by surname.

She ducked into her own dormitory, averting her red-eyed gaze from August, and lay down in her bed, facing the wall. It would be dinner time soon, and she needed to get herself under control.

O

"Gee," Greengrass—or should he call her Crabgrass?—said, "there seems to be something the matter with your little goody-two-shoes. I wonder what that might be." She steepled her fingers together in mock contemplation.

"Go bother someone who cares," Draco grumbled, though he had one eye on Granger himself.

"Oh, you care," Astoria said. She spooned a Brussels' sprout onto her plate, speared it with her fork, and proceeded to nibble at it, one leaf at a time. Annoying.

"I meant someone who cares to converse with you. I'm leaving." He stood, grabbing a piece of chicken to take along with him.

"Aw, how sweet. Your tail's between your legs and everything. Poor little mongrel—oh, wait, no. That would be what I'd call your children someday, wouldn't it? Your little half-breed pups?"

Was it really wrong to hit a girl? Probably. Maybe he could bribe another girl to hit her for him. Maybe he could even ask Granger to do it and save himself the money.

This frugality thing was starting to grow on him.

"Ha ha." He managed to resist the urge to throw the piece of chicken straight at her head—far too plebian—turned, and walked off. He spared a quick glance in Granger's direction and caught Potter's eye instead.

Uh oh.

Draco sped up his pace some, but he'd barely made it out of the Great Hall before he heard footsteps echoing behind him, and five seconds later, he was being forcibly stopped. He tensed. This was going to hurt, wasn't it?

But the blow, hex, or other sort of physical manifestation of Harry Potter's innate sense of righteousness never came. Instead, the black haired, bespectacled boy just scowled at him. "I'd like a word with you."

"You'll excuse me if I'd rather stay here where there are witnesses."

Potter rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you, you lousy git. Some of us are above that sort of pettiness."

"Never stopped you before," Draco pointed out.

"Before, you could fight back." They frowned at one another. "Come on." Potter led them back to the common room. Good. At least here there was some chance of someone finding him if Potter decided to turn him into a slug… again. "Take a seat," Potter said, though he made no move to take one himself.

Draco sat. In the case of overprotective war heroes, it sounded like it might be best to do as he was told. This time, anyway.

Potter surveyed him, his arms crossed and his eyes strangely menacing behind their glasses. "I assume you know why we're here."

"Maybe," Draco said. There was still a small chance that there was something else that might have gotten him onto Potter's bad side, more so than usual, that is. Besides, why would Granger have told _him_? Didn't that technically qualify as girl talk?

"You kissed Hermione." Nope, she'd definitely told him, alright.

"Oh, that."

"Yes, that." Potter's scowl grew even more menacing, if possible. "Why?"

"Felt like it." Draco returned the scowl.

"And how long have you felt like it?"

"Getting a little personal, aren't we?"

"Just answer the question." There was a minute twitch of a vein in Potter's temple, and so Draco decided it might be best to actually come up with an answer.

"October, maybe?" Hell if he knew. These things were gradual. Maybe it would have been better to start counting from that first almost kiss, but that hadn't been altogether sudden, now had it?

He could see the wheels and cogs working in Potter's brain. "Four months?" he nearly spat. "You've wanted to kiss her for four months?"

He had? "So it would seem. Maybe a bit less." What month had it been when he'd touched her lips that first time on the stairs? October or November?

Potter looked at him skeptically. "Then I suppose you've at least showed some… restraint."

"You do realize you're not her father, don't you?" That one earned him an eye-roll.

"Her dad isn't here. Neither is yours, I see."

Draco found himself standing. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Potter didn't even flinch. "What I mean is, if your father were… around, you wouldn't have even thought of pulling something like this! Hermione deserves someone who'd fight for her. Not a bloody coward like you."

Draco growled, his face growing steadily warmer. "What do you want from me, anyway? I will fight for her if that's what you're getting at!"

There was a moment of hesitation. "You would?" He would?

"Sure." Why not? That hole he was digging was pretty deep as it was, why not add another foot?

"Sure isn't good enough. Hermione was beating herself up over this earlier, and I don't like to see her hurt. You, on the other hand, have been known for the opposite." Potter's eyebrows lowered. "So you either do this the right way or you don't do this at all."

"Stop speaking in moralistic code!"

Potter's expression changed, subtly at first, and it honestly took a Slytherin to tell the difference. And it was a Slytherin difference. He looked, dare Draco think it, devious. "Either ask her out properly and make it official, Ron knowing and all, or back off and leave her alone."

This was a test. Who knew Potter was cocky enough to take the risk? Potter was betting, and with great odds in his favor, that Draco would be too chicken to do anything of the sort. Weasley was likely to kill him, throttle him in his sleep and leave his carcass in a state of mutilation for all to point at and gasp—or laugh, more like, he thought glumly. And even without the threat of the weasel, there were still a few other things to think about:

Even if his mother had told him to take whatever made him happy, that didn't mean she wouldn't be severely disappointed in him if he did.

He would still be going against everything he'd been raised to believe.

He'd be beyond tarnishing what little he had left of his reputation. He'd be leaving it in the desert sun to shrivel up and die.

And there was always the great possibility that Granger wouldn't even say yes if he did ask her out.

Why did that last one seem to be the scariest factor of all?

Draco mentally weighed the pros and cons, and the cons seemed to be winning. However, there was still the matter of wiping that self-satisfied smirk off of Potter's vainglorious face, and, what's more, another matter that Draco didn't want to admit. A matter that felt as if he'd be losing something vital if he gave up now, something like a piece of a certain blood-pumping muscle.

"Fine, then." That particular muscle was pounding hard now, pumping blood at a spectacular rate, up to his head and down through his extremities in a fantastic pulsing rush. "I'll ask her out."

O

A.N.: Did you see that one coming? Also, I somehow managed to get a couple nominations at the Dramione Awards! Check out the link on my profile. It's all one-shots and art this round. If whoever nominated me is reading this, thanks!


	23. Will You, Won't You

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 23—Will You, Won't You

Potter looked momentarily confused. "What?"

"I said I'll do it." Draco was, quite frankly, aghast at his own resolve, but that didn't stop him from adopting a sudden air of confidence. Reckless confidence, that was.

Potter squeezed his eyes shut before opening them again, but apparently this wasn't a dream. "You know Ron'll kill you, right? It's suicide."

"Which is why I'm trusting you," Draco nearly clapped him on the shoulder but thought better of it, "to prevent homicide." He grinned cheekily. "And I must say, I appreciate the concern. Touching."

"It's not concern; it's befuddlement! Do you _really_ like Hermione?" he asked in confusion.

"Can you think of any other reason for me to agree?" Draco quipped. "I thought not," he added, watching Potter's face morph through a series of contorted expressions.

"_Weird_ day."

"I'll say."

Potter gave him one more skeptical look before shaking his head and going down the spiral staircase, muttering something to himself.

So this was it, Draco realized. He'd made a potentially life-altering decision just now. He never thought he'd make a life-altering decision in a former toilet while holding a piece of chicken in his hand, but there was a first time for everything.

He collapsed onto the couch, looked dubiously at his chicken, and decided that it had seemed much more appealing ten minutes prior when his biggest concern had been to get away from Greengrass.

Now he just had to figure out how he was going to go about this. If he were going to "do things properly," then he'd need to make sure that Granger said yes. That was certainly more easily said than done. Hmph. If he wanted to be horribly cliché, he could go ahead and wait the two weeks that were left until Valentine's Day. However, he'd already spent so much of his time sending her flowers lately that one more saccharine act of the warm and fuzzies was bound to send him to Mungo's in order to seek psychiatric help.

So that was out the window. He'd rather not have to wait that long, anyway. If he acted quickly, he'd be more likely to keep his resolve. There was also the added plus that Granger probably already had him weighing in quite heavily in her thoughts. Why not strike while the proverbial iron was still proverbially hot?

What exactly was the definition of a proverb, anyhow?

There was a small dust bin in the corner of the room, and he threw away the remnant of his dinner. It was time to brainstorm.

O

Hermione had not failed to notice the fact that Harry had left about twelve seconds after Malfoy, but Ginny had. Truthfully, Hermione did not have very many girlfriends. This had bothered her from time to time, but for the most part she'd been able to do without. Ginny, she figured, probably was her best female friend here at Hogwarts, though the younger girl did have her own girlfriends her own age. Luna, for example. And so Hermione wondered, belatedly at that, if she shouldn't inform her best girlfriend of the recent and surprising occurrence in her love-life.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Ginny asked, one red brow raised.

Hermione blinked. "Like what?" she asked stupidly. She hated asking things stupidly.

"Like you're about to sneeze on me but haven't quite made your mind up about it yet. Something the matter?"

Hermione sighed and rubbed her temples. "Can I talk to you about something? Not here, though," she added, looking wistfully at Dean, who looked confusedly back at her, fork halfway to his mouth.

Ginny stood, patting down her skirt. "Of course. Sorry, Dean," she added teasingly. Hermione had almost forgotten that the two of them had dated two years prior.

"Ignore me. I'm used to it," he replied, and he went back to his conversation with the Gryffindor Quidditch captain.

"So," Ginny said as they left the Great Hall and headed down the usual route to Gryffindor Tower, "what might this be about? I haven't done anything else to lead Harry to believe that I want to get engaged, have I?"

"No… not this time," Hermione replied, trying to keep the tone light but getting the feeling that she was failing.

"Good to know." Ginny smiled then and waved her House Crest ring in the light, letting it refract against the fake ruby. "Well, then, what could it be? Ron? August? _NEWTs?_" Her face twisted in disgust. Hermione mumbled something low under her breath. "Falroy?" Ginny asked. "What's falroy?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, _Malfoy_," she corrected.

"Oh." Ginny stopped. "What's he done this time?"

What hadn't he done this time? The hall looked vacant enough, and so Hermione took a big breath before making her confession, and then promptly froze up. In retrospect, she was actually genuinely surprised that she'd told Harry. Telling anyone… saying anything, it made it all so much more real.

"Are you okay?" Hermione shook her head no, and Ginny's frown deepened. "What did he do? Should I send a bat bogey hex after him?"

"No," Hermione said reluctantly. Her face was starting to feel feverish.

"Should I… guess?" Ginny prompted, looking concerned, confused, and bemused all at once.

Hermione shook her head again and tried to clear her throat. "Somewhere a little more private." With that, she hooked onto Ginny's elbow, and they made the rest of their way to Gryffindor Tower and ultimately into the Seventh Year girls' dorm. She took a seat at the end of Vicky Frobisher's bed, moving a charmed stuffed bear—which kept changing from Grizzly to panda to polar bear—out of her way as she did.

"He didn't…." Ginny looked as if she were about to suggest something much worse than the truth, so Hermione interrupted.

"We kissed," she said, point-blank.

For a long moment it didn't look as if Ginny would react at all. "Really?" she said after a half-minute's pause.

Hermione coughed. "Yes."

"When?" If anything, Ginny looked puzzled. Not so much shocked, just… puzzled.

"During Amorell's class. We went out to collect mistletoe." Certainly that was enough information to make it dead clear how it had come about, even if there was the added detail about how she'd literally fallen into his arms. At least she hadn't fallen head over heels.

"And you didn't hex him because…?"

Now it was Hermione's turn to be puzzled. "Well, for one, we had to leave our wands in the classroom," she pointed out.

Ginny shook her head. "Oh… oh, yeah. I forgot about that. Did he overpower you, then?" Ginny was looking less perplexed now. Honestly, like she had to hex him if he tried to kiss her!

"Um." Now she actually had to come up with an answer to that one. "He didn't force me, if that's what you mean, though I did try to squirm away at first."

And Ginny looked confused again. "So… you could have gotten away. You let him, then?"

"You don't really have to make me feel any worse about it than I already do!" Hermione pointed out, a sudden crop of sweat building at the base of her spine.

Ginny adopted a look that was one part Molly, one part Percy, one part Ron. "Easy, Hermione. I'm just trying to get things sorted. Did you kiss him back, then?"

"Probably."

"Probably?"

"I wasn't doing a whole lot of thinking. And really, what does that even mean? Did I move my lips? If that's your qualifier, I'm not sure you could say I've ever kissed anyone back, since I usually don't get the chance!"

Ginny's nose curled. "No wonder you gave up on Ron, then. Bleh. Alright, if given the opportunity and the clearness of mind, would you have moved your lips?"

"With whom?"

Ginny looked like she wanted to slap her own face. "Malfoy! I don't really want to know about you and Ron!"

Hermione groaned. "Wouldn't I like to know!"

"About you and Ron?"

"No! Ugh, I'm sorry, Gin, but I can't dissect this any further for now. I just thought you should know. I already told Harry, so I've already gotten it off my chest, and—"

"So, wait a minute! You already told Harry? What? Hermione, you know what you're doing, don't you?"

Hermione stopped. "What? What _am_ I doing?"

"It's like you're bloody preparing us in case this… _persists_!" Ginny looked dumbstruck. "You fancy him!" she accused.

Hermione's mouth widened. "No, I don't!" Did she?

"Yes, yes you do!"

"No, I don't!"

"Yes, you do!" This could go on for awhile.

"Define fancy!"

"Yes, you—oh. Um, you're the one who likes books and vocabulary so much! You define fancy!"

Hermione groaned, wanting to kick her feet and pound her fists. "You're not exactly helping much," she pouted.

"Hermione," Ginny said, calming her tone and sounding much more like the Head Girl she was meant to be, "I'm trying to help you. I am. Look, if he tries to kiss you again, do you think you'd let him, or would you curse him into the next century like you might have if you'd had your wand?"

Hermione found herself envisioning that day at the bottom of the stairwell again. Her shoes in one hand, her bag in the other, and Malfoy's thumb rolling over and over her lips. Only this time, when he moved to replace his thumb with his mouth, she didn't duck into her room.

Would it always be as nice as it had been this morning? Malfoy'd been gentle, almost sweet in an oxymoronic sort of way. She'd enjoyed the kiss. There was no question about that. She wouldn't mind receiving another. It was just that he was the one giving it to her.

Why did it have to be him, of all people? She didn't want to like him. She didn't want this… this mouth-watering feeling she got when she thought about his arms wrapping around her in an embrace. She shouldn't be feeling anything remotely similar to lust towards Draco Malfoy, and this feeling of belonging was probably worse.

When he held her, she felt like she was meant to be there. She couldn't explain it.

"I don't know," Hermione finally said, her voice soft with just a faint crust of ache.

In all honesty, she would have liked nothing more than to feel his arms around her at that exact moment.

Why did his hug suddenly seem equal to one her father might give her?

O

Where was she? Draco'd been sitting in the Common Room, waiting for her to get back for the last—he checked his watch—hour and a half. Moon and Abbott had come in and twittered in front of him for far longer than any two Hufflepuffs should ever dare.

Girls were nuisances. Life would be much simpler without them, if it weren't for the whole lack of continuation of the human race bit.

They'd finally shoved off when he'd threatened to throw a shoe at them, though they had asked, far too boldly, why he didn't shove off himself.

He hadn't answered.

Like he said, nuisances.

Sitting here was making him antsy, and what was worse… he had no plan. None. Where was his Slytherin cunning now?

If she'd just bloody well show up, he'd just ask her, straightforward, and see what the answer would be. The coward in him almost wanted her to say no just so he could escape Weasley with all of his limbs intact.

What? He rather liked his arms exactly where they were, thanks.

There was a creak and a groan from outside the Common Room door, and Draco found himself sitting up straighter than he'd ever sat before. If it were Patil, he'd probably throw something at her.

The door opened, and, unfortunately, it wasn't Granger. It wasn't Patil either, so the cushion he'd been ready to seize was forgotten. "Malfoy," Ron Weasley mumbled. "Great."

He looked awful, was the first thing Draco thought to himself, and that was saying something considering whom he was thinking about. Weasley was covered with mud from head to foot, had a limp, and was missing both front teeth. Pomfrey could regrow them in a matter of hours, but still.

"Did a giant ask you to dance?" Draco asked before he could stop himself.

"No!" There was a whistling sound as air escaped through the tooth hole. Weasley sent him a glare. "Mind your own biffnith." He hobbled down the stairs, a trail of mud falling onto the floor behind him.

Draco was still staring at the mat of red and brown-streaked hair that was disappearing down the spiral when the door opened again, a riot of brown hair peeking into the room. "Oh," she said, and she let the door close behind her. "Did I just see…?"

"He went downstairs already," Draco said, nodding toward the corner of the room.

She nodded, looking distractedly at the clods of dirt on the tile floor. "Well, good night, then," she said, and she started toward the stairs.

Draco stood. "Wait." And she stopped, her shoulders tensing. "I wanted to talk to you, if you wouldn't mind."

She bit her lip—why did she always have to draw attention to her lower lip?—and stepped forward to sit on the chair beside the sofa. He'd have preferred if she'd sat next to him, but a start was a start. She looked expectantly at him, her hands clasping her knees. "Well?" she prompted after he hadn't said anything for half a minute.

"Well…." He twisted in his seat to face her better. "I—"

"Ow!"

"Come on, Ron!" Both of their heads swiveled toward the staircase, where Weasley reemerged, being pulled—surprisingly strongly—by Moon. She scowled at him as soon as she'd cleared the landing. "You know what he did? He got clobbered by not one bludger, not two, but five of them! Some idiot was trying to jinx them in order to cheat and accidentally multiplied them instead!" Moon harrumphed, grabbed Weasley by the arm, and forcibly pulled him toward the door. He winced, gritting his holey teeth.

"You didn't haff to tell dem!" Weasley frowned, turning his attention from his girlfriend to them. "Why're you togeffer?"

Before Draco could think of a suitable riposte, Granger jumped to her feet. "Are you okay?" she asked, running a hand through her hair. "Did you break your nose, too?"

Moon shook her head, rolling her eyes. "It's just the teeth." Weasley scowled at her. And Draco thought he and Granger made a dysfunctional couple—or at least they would if they were ever left alone long enough for him to ask her. In which case….

"Maybe you should go to the Hospital Wing." Arguably, that was probably the nicest thing he'd ever said to Weasley. Ever. At least he had an ulterior motive.

He really needed to pick on a First Year. He was being far too mild lately.

Unsurprisingly, the red rodent sent him a look. "Maybe _you_ should."

"Well, someone should!" Moon ranted. "Come on, Ron!"

Granger had been looking contemplative for the last several minutes. "Why would someone jinx the bludgers to cheat if it were a practice? They didn't have a game on a Monday, did they?"

"Two words," Moon said. "Cannons. Idiot." She poked Weasley in the rib.

"Ow! Stop dat!"

Moon rolled her eyes, grabbed a chunk of orange Quidditch uniform, and yanked the both of them out of the Common Room, more mud falling on the way out.

O

The door closed with a click, and Hermione felt the tension return to her as she turned to face Malfoy again. Alone. Why _were_ they "togeffer," anyway?

"You might want to cast a silencing charm," he suggested, almost blandly.

"Why?"

"Just a conversation of a private nature, is all." He flashed her a quick, nervous smile. But it was a smile, nonetheless. Not a smirk, but a smile.

In other words, she was doomed.

She felt a sudden tension in her chest, below her heart but above her stomach. He patted the empty space beside him on the sofa, and she sat down cautiously after she'd cast her Silencio. Her wand felt funny in her hand, and she wasn't sure whether to grip it tighter or let it fall freely into her lap.

He took a moment to cast a reflexive glance over her shoulder into the fireplace before looking directly at her. "Did you mean it?" he asked.

Hermione was startled. "Excuse me?"

"Back on the day of the dance party, you said that it wasn't me, exactly. It was just that you couldn't, and I quote if I'm not mistaken, 'let that cow win.' Did you mean it?"

Hermione's brain was in a flutter trying to remember that conversation. Had she said that? "I… suppose?"

"So, then, now that we've established that you wouldn't be letting Trelawney win because there are holes in the prophecy—"

"Malfoy," she stopped him. Her heart was starting to race now, and she couldn't even tell why. What was he getting at? "You don't honestly think we're going to fall in love, do you?" Had she just said what she thought she just said?

He leaned back against the arm of the sofa, surveying her. "There's only one way to find out. I'm just suggesting we try it." There was a teasing lilt to his tone.

"What are you suggesting?" she asked, her suspicion peaked.

"That we date," he said, sounding so casual, he might have been asking her a question about their test in Runes tomorrow.

Hermione's mouth went dry. "That we what?" she squeaked.

"Date. And I do mean the verb and not the fruit."

"That was a horrible joke," she murmured.

"I know." He looked more serious now.

"So…" she asked, trying to regain her bearings, "what? You want to sneak about the castle and… snog?" She'd actually said that, too, hadn't she?

He smirked slightly. "Yes, just without the sneaking, if you wouldn't mind." He walked his fingers across his knee, coming close to but not quite reaching her hand. He squeezed his hand into a fist.

"So… no sneaking? You mean… when you say date, you _actually_ mean—"

"Boyfriend, girlfriend, hold hands on the way to meals, doe eyes at one another on occasion—more so on your part, I'd imagine—and, yes, snogging would be very much appreciated. You're quite good at it, you know." Another teasing smile, though he did look noticeably nervous.

Hermione felt herself gulp. "Oh?"

He actually did reach for her hand now, and she jerked when he slipped her fingers between his. "In my opinion." He kissed her knuckles.

Hermione felt like her brain, body, and senses were all about to combust, her cheeks, neck, and forehead heating up.

"I need to think," she gasped. Was the fire consuming all the air in the room or were her windpipes collapsing?

"All right," he agreed. She grappled to regain her grip on her wand—and her cognizance—and stood. He followed, rising to his feet. She took a step toward the staircase, and he followed. Heaven help her, he was following her down. She could feel his eyes on the back of her head like an actual touch as they spiraled downward and into the darkened stairwell. "But—" his voice was oddly small now—"a goodnight kiss?"

She could only see the outline of him as he traced his left thumb over her lips, one at a time. His thumb fell into the dip above her chin, his lips brushing hers only briefly before he disappeared into the boys' dorm.

When Hermione finally fell asleep, she dreamt of thumbs.

O

A.N. Happy New Year! I am so sorry that this took so long! I'm afraid the next chapter will probably take an equally long time. You wouldn't throw fruit at me, would you? Perish the thought—please!


	24. White Violet

8 & 8th—Chapter 24—White Violet

"Hermione!" A voice interrupted the sleepy symphony of flowers and thumbs and clumps of poisonous, parasitic yuletide gaiety, which all whirled together in an octagonal maze of crystal balls, each one housing a laughing, bug-eyed Trelawney.

Hermione blinked awake, confused for a moment until Hannah's face came into focus. "Hmm?"

"I found this tacked to the door. It's got your name on it." Hannah took a seat on the end of Hermione's bed, seeming determined to solve the mystery of her find, which she'd tossed lightly into Hermione's hands—hands that were being controlled by a sleep-doused mind, which explained why Hermione fumbled with it and nearly dropped it onto the floor.

Sitting up and blinking into the fake morning sun, she looked drearily at the flower. It had a note, the same as always. Her name was on the front, and on the back were the words: "White violet."

It had been one week since Draco Malfoy asked her to be his girlfriend, and she still hadn't been able to make her mind up.

"Who's it from?" Hannah asked, looking excited. "August's already at breakfast…. Maybe it's from Ron!"

Hermione gave her a sleepy look that she hoped didn't insult Hannah's intelligence too harshly. She didn't know about all of the hullabaloo in Hermione's life as of late.

"No. Not his handwriting," she said honestly.

Hannah looked intrigued. "You don't think… Harry?" she asked, sounding almost beside herself with shock.

"No, no, no…" Hermione grumbled.

"Dean?" Hannah asked. "That I'd understand. Luna's, er, nice and all, but… you know."

"If you must know," Hermione said, yawning grumpily, slipping out of bed to kneel beside it, and retrieving her herbology text, "it's from Malfoy."

Hannah made a peculiar face before bursting out laughing. "Right! Of course." She sniggered. "You're a riot." She clapped Hermione on the shoulder. "See you at breakfast. Let me know if you change your mind and decide to actually tell me." Hannah slipped from the room, still guffawing, and Hermione turned back to her text.

She found the V's quickly and slid her finger down to the section on violets, tapping confusedly at the page until she realized that the entry carried over to the top of the next. There was a single sentence for white violets: "Let's take a chance on happiness."

"Well," she mumbled, "he certainly does know how to be persuasive." She ran her finger up and down the page out of habit.

Happiness—such an intangible, obscure thing that could be obtained in many ways at many costs. Is this what would finally make him happy? Her?

Even so far back as at Platform 9 ¾, he'd seemed less than what she'd call happy. Back then and in the Great Hall during the Start of Term feast, she'd thought, however subconsciously, that she'd like to see him happy again—she just hadn't realized what his sole demand would be.

And wasn't she the one who was, apparently, addicted to his smiles? She half wondered how he'd react if she sent him a yellow tulip, declaring, "There's sunshine in your smile." He'd probably turn tail and run from such a wholesome compliment.

Hermione got dressed quickly, feeling suddenly determined. This was the first time he'd attempted to nudge her into making a decision since he'd asked, and so she should probably say something to him, even if she still wasn't decided. Her best conjecture was that he figured the more he left her alone to think, the less annoying she'd find him. He was spot-on with that one, assuming that was the real reason. Or perhaps he was hoping Ron might go away again before they settled things. She was kind of hoping the same.

She closed the door to the girls' dorm behind her and stared a moment at the door to the boys'. It wouldn't hurt to knock, would it? It was just a conversation. Those were innocent enough, right?

Before she could lose her nerve, she rapped smartly on the center of the door, and then she stood there biting her lip. There was the sound of bedsprings and footsteps before the doorknob turned. "Hermione?" Ron asked, pulling the door open. Behind him on the corner bed next to the lavatory sat Malfoy, who looked up curiously and made a face at her from behind Ron's back. She couldn't even begin to guess how she was meant to interpret it.

"Oh, hi Ron," she said.

"Harry's already gone." He yawned. "Whatcha got there?" Ron pointed at the white violet that was still in Hermione's hand, and she blushed faintly.

"Oh, this? I was just… going to put it in my hair," she fibbed.

Ron half-frowned, half-smiled. "You are?"

"Er, yeah. I thought it might be nice to do something different for a change." Behind Ron, Malfoy had his right eyebrow raised, a definite smirk on his face.

"That's nice. Are you… coming to breakfast?" Ron asked awkwardly.

"In a minute." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "I… actually wanted to talk to Malfoy." Well, she did. "About Arithmancy." That was a lie, but Ron didn't need to know that.

The thing about Ron was that though he could be as thick as tapioca pudding at times, she tended to underestimate him. He wasn't completely stupid, and at the moment he had already been made suspicious by the class assignment that had led to his breaking Malfoy's nose and the appearance of the two of them alone together on the night Ron had been missing his teeth—which had grown back quite nicely, as it happens.

"Well, don't let me stop you," Ron said in a slow tone, and he pushed the door wider. "Talk away." He made no move to excuse himself from the conversation—and why should he if they were talking about Arithmancy?

Malfoy stood, evidently curious about how she planned to get them around Ron. "I was wondering if I could borrow your book. Mine seems to be missing a page," she lied smoothly, even if smooth for her tended to have a squeakiness to it.

"Well, I don't know, Granger. Why should I?" Malfoy asked, and whether he was just trying to keep up appearances or he thought that aggravating her was a good way to convince her to be his girlfriend, she couldn't say. Or perhaps he meant that he'd loan her the book if she said yes, which was a preposterous proposition, since she obviously was lying and didn't need his idiotic book.

For one moment, she considered replying, "Because you _love_ me," and then leave him to be pulverized by Ron. It was tempting. Really it was.

"Why shouldn't you?" she countered.

Ron was watching them carefully. "Perhaps because I don't have any incentive?" Malfoy asked. He was just toying with her.

"How about because it would be the right thing to do? It's nice to be nice." She accidentally leaned in too far and had to draw back. Her nose had crossed the invisible threshold of the boys' dorm, the tip of it suddenly itching furiously. She stood there scratching at it, well-aware that she was being far from ladylike.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Forget it, I've come up with my own incentive—ending this conversation." He turned around and dug into his trunk, returning with his book. "Get this back to me in one piece," he warned. And then he brushed past her out the door.

It occurred to her after she'd said her good-byes to Ron that that had sounded suspiciously like flirting. She really hoped Ron didn't think the same thing.

Hermione took one step past the statue of Merlin that guarded the entrance to Myrtle's Toilet only to come face to face with Malfoy once again. "Hello," he said casually, nearly scaring her enough to jump. He had the good sense to wait for her to get settled. "Unless there really is a page missing from your book—and I must say, as a potential beau, book-lending really is the least I could do—do you mind returning mine? I was hoping to get some studying in during lunch."

"Of course," she mumbled, retrieving it from her bag.

"Thank you," he said primly. His eyes glanced to the violet that was still in her hand, and he smirked.

"What?"

"Nothing… just wondering how best to fix that in your hair." He smirked wider.

"Prat," Hermione mumbled, scowling.

"Oh, come now, love. You brought that one on yourself." He flicked a piece of her hair, probably for no better reason than to watch it bounce. "But if you did want to talk to me, I don't know if this is the right spot for it, not if you'd like to keep your ex off the rampage." He glanced over his shoulder, looking pointedly at the door to the commons.

"Any suggestions for relocation?"

O

Draco had to think for a moment. There were plenty of nooks and crannies around the castle, but true privacy was hard to come by. It was getting late, and they didn't have much time to talk if they both wanted to eat before classes. The Room of Requirement would have been ideal if it hadn't been burnt to a Fiendfyre-y crisp.

"Round the corner," he finally suggested, lame as it was. There did happen to be an alcove down there with a tapestry in front of it, and it would do as well as anything.

She nodded, her hair bobbing along with her. They took the few necessary steps, she cast a silencing charm, and they stood there staring at one another, hoping Filch didn't come along and see their feet sticking out. "Well?" he prompted.

She sighed. "I just wanted to talk. You're sure this is what would make you happy? You can't blame me for still finding this…_ situation_ odd after all of these years."

"People are allowed to change their minds, aren't they? Besides," he couldn't believe he was saying this, "isn't this what that _class_ is all about? How much more unified and tolerant could we get?"

She gritted her teeth. "We could be friends," she suggested.

He blinked drolly at her. "Really, Granger?"

"Well…." She sighed exasperatedly. "You realize we don't even use each other's first names?"

"Is that a condition?" he asked, smiling like a cat with one paw on a bird's tail feathers.

"I don't know if I'd call it—"

"Hermione?" Her name felt sort of foreign on his tongue, like saying Gesundheit to someone who actually speaks German and suddenly wondering if you're pronouncing it right or not.

She took a moment to stare at him, almost in shock, until she shook her head a little. "That could take some getting used to," she mumbled.

"So it will be a regular occurrence, then?" he asked. "Hermione," he added.

She bit her lip, looking torn, but before she could say anything, the tapestry was pushed aside, revealing the grinning, devilish face of Peeves. "Danger, danger! I've found Granger! Stuck in a cranny with a dandy by the name of DRACO MALFOY! DRACO MALFOY AND HERMIONE GRANGER!"

Granger's eyes went about as wide as they would go. Peeves was on the outside of the silencing charm, which had been cancelled automatically as soon as the tapestry had been pushed aside, which meant, simply, that anyone within hearing distance would have heard him.

"Draco Malfoy did enthrall-foy the Deputy Head Gal-foy! Who'd have thought? Not I, you sot!"

"But we weren't—!" Granger argued feebly.

"TOO LATE FOR NUMMIES TO PUT IN THEIR TUMMIES, THEY THOUGHT THEY'D EAT THE OTHER'S FACES!"

"Peeves!" Draco warned, though without the use of his wand, there really wasn't anything for him to do about it.

"_Langlock!_" Peeve's taunting ended immediately as his tongue got stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he floated there, pulling at his hair for a moment before sending them a rude gesture and retreating.

Unfortunately, the voice that had uttered the spell didn't belong to Granger. But it was a feminine voice, at least, and it was all too familiar, Draco having heard it many times since he was eleven-years-old.

"Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy, come with me to my office, please," Professor McGonagall instructed, still scowling after Peeves.

"Professor," Granger said, "how did you know that jinx? That was one that Professor Snape invented, and…."

"And I've witnessed him using it on Peeves in the past. Now, come along!"

They exchanged a worried glance as they followed her. Technically, they hadn't done anything wrong except perhaps using magic in the halls, and McGonagall wouldn't even have known about the silencing charm. Maybe she thought they _had_ been snogging, like Peeves had belted.

Draco was almost surprised when they reached the gargoyles that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's old office. He'd nearly forgotten that McGonagall was the Headmistress, what with her teaching still.

"Young Hyson" was apparently the password, and Draco had a feeling she'd be changing it as soon as she'd kicked him out of her office again. Maybe she had a tea fetish the same way Dumbledore had been into sweets.

The spiral stairs carried them upward, Draco getting a good view of the back of Granger's head before they were deposited at the top.

The office itself had been rearranged. The furniture was now a warm burgundy, and the desk had small sculptures of different Transfigurations. He watched one piece turn from newt to thimble to hairbrush and back to newt again.

"Have a seat," McGonagall instructed, and she sat down with her palms clasped. "I've been meaning to address you both in regard to a set of rumors that have been far too plentiful around the staff table since the start of the school year."

Granger sat up straighter, and Draco had a notion that he could hold a ruler against her back and she'd be perfectly aligned.

"What rumors, Professor?" she asked.

"Between Professors Trelawney, Amorell, and Candanver there has been a plentiful amount of talk concerning the two of you."

Candanver? Draco wondered. Since when had his Potions professor been awake long enough to gossip about anything?

"From what I have discerned, it seems they believe that the two of you either are or _will be_," McGonagall rolled her eyes, "involved romantically, and I wished to ask you whether or not they have anything on which to found their claims."

Draco watched as Granger unstuck her tongue from the roof of her mouth, looking ill-at-ease. "Well," she began, "you see, Professor Trelawney made one of her _predictions_ at the beginning of the year, and I think she's been egging Amorell on. I wouldn't know about Candanver. He, well, he spends most of class _asleep_, and—"

"And what can you tell me about this so-called prediction?" McGonagall asked, looking slightly disgusted.

"She said that, uh, Malfoy and I would discover what the heart seeks but the mind avoids," Granger said, her voice getting squeaky toward the end.

McGonagall nodded. "Reverse psychology again," she muttered. "I thought I put a stop to that in 1987, but I guess not."

"Excuse me, Professor, reverse psychology?" Draco asked, sitting up straighter.

McGonagall sighed. "Traditionally, reverse psychology is used to convince someone to do the exact opposite of what they are told. Here, however, Sybil is using it differently. She's planted an idea in your head that you don't want to happen, but the more you fight it, the more you are forced to think about it, and thus the more likely it is to come true. Of course, I wouldn't know if it's been working on the two of you, but I'm afraid Peeves usually does have some grounds for the things he shouts at the top of his lungs." She adjusted her glasses. "What exactly were you doing in that alcove?"

"Talking," Draco answered truthfully.

"And what were you speaking of that required so much secrecy?" McGonagall asked.

Draco was about to suggest that it was none of her business, but Granger spoke up first, looking almost frantic. "We were discussing whether or not we were going to start dating," she confessed, turning an interesting shade of pinkish puce as she said it.

McGonagall blinked. "I see. Well, then, I'll have to have a word with Sybil." She said it in such a final manner, that Draco started to stand to exit.

"Sit down, Mr. Malfoy. There is one more thing I wished to discuss with you."

Draco sat.

"As you may have heard, there is a need for new staff next year." Granger leaned in, clasping the arms of her chair. "I have already offered the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor to Mr. Potter, though I have not heard back from him." She sniffed. "My own post as Transfiguration professor is also in need of filling, and as you so aptly noted, Professor Candanver is in need of replacement, though I trust you'll keep that bit of information to yourselves."

Granger was leaning in so far, Draco wondered if he shouldn't prepare to catch her when she inevitably fell out of her seat. "Yes?" she asked.

"And while I, frankly, do not know what I'm thinking in offering posts to those so young, I wondered if you would be interested? Miss Granger, you have always shown an aptitude for Transfiguration, and Mr. Malfoy, if you don't mind my saying so, I have a hard time imagining you finding employment elsewhere." Draco scowled.

"I'll take it!" Granger shouted with so much enthusiasm she nearly sprang from her chair.

"I'll consider it," Draco replied, caught between feeling insulted and curious about what it would mean teaching alongside Granger for what might end up being decades on end.

They said their farewells and exited the office, Granger taking a moment to slump against the wall. "Me… a professor! Professor Hermione Granger…." She smiled in a way that could almost be described as drunken.

"I can't believe you actually told her what we were talking about," Draco murmured, finding himself shuffling toward her in the darkness of this very different spiral stairwell.

"I want Trelawney reprimanded, obviously," she said, still looking dreamy. Draco took up one of her hands, and she seemed to snap out of it to stare at him. "What are you…" she began.

He kissed her palm before tucking the white violet behind her ear. He was about to kiss more of her when she interrupted him. "We'll be late for class! And we've missed breakfast! Come on!" She tugged him onto the stairs, still holding his hand.

O

A.N.: Those last 1300 words were written in a single sitting, and I was left thinking, "What? I'm done? Preposterous! No, wait, I am. Update, whoopee!"


	25. Yes, No, Maybe, So?

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 25—Yes, No, Maybe… So?

Forty-three seconds. Granger had held his hand for forty-three seconds after they left the Headmistress's office. He wasn't even sure she realized she was doing it—not that he was complaining. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? Well, maybe not exactly. Handholding was for those blokes who liked to send their current heartthrob flowers, which he….

Never mind.

Still, he wasn't complaining. Any physical contact with her was good reason not to complain. It was merely that he'd prefer _more_ physical contact.

One step at a time, old boy.

She'd finally let go as they parted for their respective classes, but as he took his seat in Astronomy, something felt off. At first he thought it was only his imagination—but there it was again. One pair of eyes, then another… trained on him for the briefest of seconds until….

"My brother Marvin said that his friend Olaf said that he heard from a Third Year that Peeves said that you and Hermione Granger were snogging in an alcove." The speaker was a skinny red-haired girl who looked nothing like any of the Weasleys and had never spoken to him in his life. "Is that true?"

"No." Well, it wasn't! He wished. However, there must have been something off about the inflection in his voice because the nameless ginger-girl had the audacity to grin at him.

"Oh, really?" She turned to her friends, and they all started twittering together, glancing back at him and giggling.

Didn't anyone fear him anymore? Two years ago and that could've gotten them put on a hit list—or at the very least he could have sent Pansy after them, armed with her longest set of fake fingernails and her lackluster spell-knowledge.

"Yes, really," he interrupted them, even though Sinistra was already beginning to hand back their star-charts.

Red turned around again, giving him an "Oh, come now" look of superior patience. "Are you calling my brother a liar? You do know who he is, don't you? He's a beater on the Hufflepuff house team. _Huge_."

Was she threatening him, now? "Of course I don't know who your brother is," Draco found himself saying. "I don't know who you are!"

She blinked at him three times. "I'm Ribbon Winhowser." She said this as if it were meant to mean something. Who did she think she was? Harry Potter?

"Ribbon?" he questioned. "Your name is _Ribbon?_"

"Yes," she replied. "_Winhowser_."

"What the," Draco swore, "is that supposed to mean to me?" he nearly screeched, just narrowly missing the necessary decibel that would have made Sinistra make a 360 degree turnabout.

Ribbon actually laughed. "My mother is Merryweather Winhowser—the gossip columnist for Witch Weekly," she added helpfully.

"How on Earth did your brother end up named Marvin?"

"You're one to talk!" she said, looking less amused now. "And I'd watch it if I were you! Maybe I won't send Marvin after you. Maybe I'll send _Mother_ after you!" She sniffed and turned around in her seat, so that her ponytail was facing him.

Oh, Merlin, no! Witch Weekly? Gossip rag to end them all?

That couldn't be good.

Where were Pansy and her fake nails when he needed them?

O

The excitement of being offered her dream job—well, perhaps not her dream job, exactly, but it was pretty high up on her list of preferred occupations—had worn off some by the time Hermione had gone to lunch, to be replaced with a dull stomach ache.

Malfoy'd been offered the Potions position. Frankly, it sounded like McGonagall'd offered it to him out of pity. He was good at Potions. _Okay_, so he was pretty good at every subject now that he'd taken it upon himself to compete with her. But was he really that good? She supposed he couldn't be any less pleasant as an instructor than Snape had been, and goodness knew he was better groomed. Younger students might even drool after him.

What bothered her wasn't so much that he'd been asked but that there were certain consequences surrounding the fact that he'd been asked. If she did say yes to him… and they taught together…. Did she really want an office romance with him? It just made it all so much messier, especially when they inevitably broke up.

The longer she put off making her decision about him, the more confused she became. She shouldn't be considering it at all. She should say no.

But why, really, should she say no? He was right. This was the ultimate show of tolerance. An ex-death eater pureblood elitist and, well, her.

Besides. She liked him, as odd as it was to admit it. He'd bloody-well grown on her.

Oh, but the hypocrisy! Every time she came close to deciding to hang it all and say yes—the hypocrisy! No to Ron but yes to Dark Mark Boy? If she should be deciding to date anyone right now, it should be someone with whom she had a completely clean slate.

But he was pretty.

Had she just thought that?

"Hermione, you all right?" Harry asked, shoveling a spoonful of butternut squash into his mouth.

She sighed. "I just have a lot on my mind." She'd been about to say that there was a lot on her plate, but considering her literal lunch plate was still empty, it seemed like an odd choice of metaphor. "I think I might go home this weekend. I've got some things I'd like to mull over with my mum."

Harry gave her a thoughtful look, his head tilting to the side. "Nice flower," he commented, and Hermione's face turned completely red. She'd almost forgotten she was still wearing the white violet Malfoy'd given her.

"Thanks," she said slowly.

Harry turned his head to look over at the Slytherin table, and Hermione followed his gaze. "Think carefully, okay?" he said.

"Okay."

O

Pretty? Hermione thought to herself again, sitting and facing Malfoy in Good Grief class. Amorell'd taken them to a whole new level today. They were to stare into their partner's eyes for the entire class.

It was just as unnerving and awkward as it sounded. And boring.

He wasn't exactly pretty, per se. He wasn't bad-looking either. His chin was still too pointed, even if having his hair gel-free helped balance his looks. She already knew his looks didn't revolt her. Far from it. He just wasn't pretty.

Pretty average, maybe. Better-looking than Ron, maybe. She was in some serious denial, maybe.

There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was trying not to smirk, and then—he stuck his tongue out at her, just slightly.

She squirmed.

He winked.

She scowled.

"Isn't this fun?" he whispered.

"Loads."

He grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling, but then, just as quickly, the grin was gone. "We need to talk." Technically, they weren't supposed to be talking at all at the moment, but Amorell was currently distracted by a hornet hovering around the classroom, and she was trying to _wingardium leviosa_ it out the window.

Hermione nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Monday."

"Next Monday?" he asked, his voice rising just a speck in alarm. "Why then?"

"Why is that a problem?" she countered.

He seemed reluctant to say anything more with the rest of the class so nearby, and at first she didn't think he'd answer at all. "Sunday," he stressed.

Sunday? Hermione's mind whipped about, trying to think of what the significance of Sunday was. And then she promptly felt like an imbecile. Sunday was Valentine's Day. And Malfoy had remembered while she hadn't.

"You want to be my Valentine?" she whispered incredulously. Something was very wrong with the world if Draco Malfoy was subscribing to being that romantic.

Malfoy rolled his eyes before jerking his head in Ron's direction.

Oh…. There was a second significance to Sunday, as it turned out. Ron would be away at a game that day. Well, in that case, perhaps she shouldn't go home next weekend, not if Ron would be so conveniently indisposed. Whatever her decision turned out to be, it would be better if Ron weren't around.

"Sunday, then. I'll give you my answer Sunday."

On Valentine's Day.

No pressure there. Oh, no. None at all.

O

Hermione had thought that six days would be plenty, more than enough even, to get herself sorted, but she found herself blinking awake at five in the morning on _That Day_, feeling groggy, confused, and appallingly undecided.

What was wrong with her? Since when was she this indecisive? And about a boy, no less.

Well, they'd just have to hash it out, that was all. She rolled over, burying her head between her pillows and unintentionally kicking Crookshanks in the process. The tomcat growled and jumped from the bed to go scratch at the door, asking to be let out.

"Shut that blooming fur ball up," Padma grumbled, sounding half-asleep, which was further evidenced by the fact that her next statement was: "I don't want to babysit, Parv!"

Hermione got up and stumbled to the door, letting Crookshanks out into the black stairwell before climbing back into her nice, warm bed. Her pillow felt so cozy under her head, but it seemed she'd already woken up just a bit too much to be able to shut her brain off again. She hated it when that happened.

If it wasn't a certain yes or a no, then it was a maybe. So… what did that mean? Lots of lovely snogging, her exhausted brain responded.

Huh? That wasn't what it meant. It meant… meant something. Oh, but she was so sleepy. Her eyelids felt like they were made out of lead instead of tissue.

She was asleep before she could finish making sense of her thoughts.

O

Draco was frankly amazed that he hadn't witnessed anymore evidence of Peeves's gossip spreading other than a few odd glances in his direction. Maybe that Ribbon girl had given him up for a bad job… or maybe he just hadn't waited enough and he'd be on the cover of Witch Weekly, most likely in a photo taken at his father's Kiss.

He pushed a hand through his hair, trying to get that particular train of thought out of his head.

It was Sunday at last, and hopefully St. Valentine would do him a favor and guilt a certain young lady into saying yes, if only because turning him down today would be cruel and unusual.

He'd gotten up early to "take a bath," procuring a flower. Why not? It didn't seem to be detracting from her opinion of him, even if with every flower he made in that bathtub, it felt like another piece of his manhood had just sunk down the drain. He'd been torn between a purple columbine and a figwort, and he'd ultimately gone with the former because the word figwort didn't exactly inspire anyone to wax poetic. Besides, why speak of "future joys" when he could be "resolved to win"?

He hoped she didn't take that the wrong way. He didn't want it to look like this was just a game to him—not that he'd mind if she gave him a nasturtium for resignation.

On second thought, resignation? Not the best word to use.

Weasley had gotten up and left at four in the morning, yet another reason for Draco to give up any dreams of becoming a famous Quidditch player. He actually liked his sleep.

The Common Room was quiet when he sat down on the couch at half past seven. There was a fire in the fireplace, the blaze crackling in a calming sort of way. He'd been sitting there with a book for no more than ten minutes when Granger's mangy cat appeared out of nowhere and started sniffing his feet.

Draco'd always been indifferent to cats. He wasn't really an animal person, but he could abide them well enough—just as long as they didn't happen to be hippogriffs or, frankly, anything living in the Forbidden Forest besides unicorns.

Granger's cat apparently found Draco's toes intriguing, and the cat sat down on its hindquarters to stare up at him for a moment before jumping onto the couch beside him, matted tail waving.

"May I help you?" Draco asked rhetorically, watching as the cat first placed a paw on Draco's leg and then proceeded to lay down on top of his hands, which had been holding his book up.

The cat just looked at him for a moment before starting to lick itself.

And that was precisely the position Granger found them in as she entered the common room half a second later. She stood back, an expression of surprise on her face. "Did you pick him up?" she asked, looking flabbergasted.

"No. He just decided he thought I'd make a good chair." Draco tried to dislodge one of his arms, but the cat issued a low growl, which turned into a deep purr as soon as Draco stopped fidgeting. "Is he always so… forward?" he asked. The cat wasn't exactly well-groomed or cute, and frankly, having the thing on his lap wasn't precisely what he'd call a treat.

"Not at all." Granger took the seat beside him, hesitated a moment, and picked the cat off of his lap and replaced it on her own. She stroked the furry thing behind the ears a few times, looking awestruck. "Crookshanks is… special," she said at last. "He trusts you!" she added, her eyebrows furrowing.

Draco gave the cat a cursory look. What an unusual cohort. Pity he hadn't thought of gaining her favor through her pet any earlier. He set his book aside before offering her the flower, which she took with her free hand.

"Columbine," he said, and she nodded silently.

She bit her lip for a moment, hesitating before looking him in the eye. "Where have you been getting these anyway? They can't all be coming from the Greenhouses. I've checked."

Draco felt his throat close up for just a moment. He should have known she'd ask sooner or later. "Honestly?" he asked.

"If you would."

He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. He couldn't help but feel slightly wary. But maybe bestowing some trust in her would offer her some proof of his loyalty, that he wasn't just having her on. "I made it," he admitted.

She quirked an eyebrow. "How? You can only use magic in class during the scheduled class time, and that first flower you gave me was on _Christmas_."

He swallowed. "I found a loophole."

O

"Loophole?" Hermione asked, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. He wasn't to use magic outside of classes whatsoever, which meant he'd been breaking the law. If the Ministry found out….

He nodded slowly. "I don't know why, and I found out by accident. See…" he looked embarrassed, "I can use magic in the bathtub."

She blinked. What? "What?"

"Well," he corrected, shifting in his seat. "Not the whole bathtub. Pretty much just between the drain and the faucet."

She had to stop and squint for a moment. "So that's why Harry said you'd gotten that one flower from the loo!" she stated, and she covered her mouth and snorted. "From the bathtub?" she asked, fighting off a laugh.

He looked slightly less worried now, if not intrigued by her reaction. "Bathtub magic," he confirmed.

Hermione settled back, giving Crookshanks an extra-good scratch under the chin. "Must be the metal."

"Hmm?"

"Your manacle. It's probably counteracted by the opposing forces of the metal in the faucet and in the drain." She shrugged. "It's all to do with polarity and magnetism. And magides," she added.

"That's it? That's the big mystery? Metal?"

"Pretty much, yes. You could probably do the same with the sink." She grinned. How funny.

Malfoy shifted so that he was sitting cross-legged, facing her. "Well, now that's settled and it doesn't look like you'll be turning me in…." He gave her a meaningful look.

"You want to know my answer," she concluded. She sighed, moving Crookshanks onto the floor and resting her head in her hand, looking at him askance. He stared right back at her, the epitome of expectation. "Why do you want to date me?" she finally asked.

"Why?" He paused, and she could tell she'd caught him off-guard. "Well, why'd you want to date Weasley?" he countered.

She rolled her eyes, groaning. "For one, I liked him. He was my friend."

"Ditto and ditto," Malfoy replied, leaning in slightly.

"And… I was attracted to him."

"Ditto." Malfoy gave her a rather obvious leer, looking her up and down and making her blush.

"And," she stumbled, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks, "I cared about him."

"Ditto."

"And I guess I thought we'd be good together."

"D-I-double T-O." Malfoy looked slightly smug. "And what made you not want to be with him?" He very well knew about August.

"Mostly? I couldn't imagine a future with him anymore."

Malfoy closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "And I guess that's where you're mostly stuck about deciding about me, isn't it?" She nodded once. "Too bad I can't use that prophecy as evidence, eh?" he asked, though he looked more bothered than amused.

"Look," he said, and he took up one of her hands in his. "I can't guarantee the future, but I can tell you that I _am_ serious about this. I'm not going to leave you the second I've got this manacle off, and…" he frowned, "you know I'm not going to be accepted back into my old circles any time soon, so what reason would I ever have to leave you?" He paused as if waiting for her to answer.

"I guess… not a whole lot of reason," she said uncomfortably. "But if we decide we aren't suited?" she asked.

He smirked lopsidedly at her. "Isn't that what dating is for? I'm asking you to be my girlfriend here, Granger. Hermione," he added, flinching as he corrected himself. "Not asking you to elope." She blushed. The very idea…. Oy. "I just want a chance. You can always finish things if you want to. So… please?"

That please. That same please he'd used before he'd kissed. "Y-you're sure want this?" she asked, feeling strangely dizzy.

"Positive." He squeezed her hand.

Hermione closed her eyes for a long time, just trying to breathe again. "Okay." She opened her eyes to find him sitting closer than he had been before.

"Thank you," he said, sounding genuinely relieved. And he kissed her. Her boyfriend, Draco Malfoy, kissed her in the middle of their common room on Valentine's morning, one hand cradling the base of her head, the other squeezing her hand.

The moment was only slightly ruined by the intake of breath at the top of the stairs, and they paused to see Hannah standing there looking entirely blown away. "You weren't kidding!"

No, Hermione definitely was not.

So… now what?

O

A.N.: We're now approaching the 80,000 word minimum I originally decided to make for this story. At least, we are on some of the sites I post to. There's a rather wide discrepancy. In any case, this story's not over yet. I want to make it to the end of their school year. In short: no clue how many more chapters, but we're definitely in the homeward stretch.


	26. No Time for a Summer Friend

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 26—No Time for a Summer Friend

Roughly six months ago, the first cool chunk of ice had dropped into Hermione's stomach when she read that Prophet article that beautiful August morning, that first creep of something much like guilt stalking up her spine and down into her intestines to grow and branch into a mycological entity.

Luna Lovegood might have called it Twitterpatitis: a disease of the stomach, causing butterfly-shaped bubbles to bounce around the cavity, generally caused by being bitten by the love worm, which will then burrow its way into the heart to lay its eggs.

Then again, Luna says many things.

The second chunk of ice had been dropped a month after that on the first of September.

The ice was officially beginning to melt now. At least, Hermione thought that was what this feeling was. She had never done anything to feel guilty about in the first place, and yet somehow she felt as if she were making amends for some unknown transgression. That was one side effect of war: the uneasiness that comes with the knowledge that, no matter how one tries to disregard the fact, the enemy is still human and feels human emotion. This side effect was always bound to plague her, what with her penchant for trusting in the humanity of even the most non-human of creatures.

There really just was something about Draco Malfoy smiling because of her.

O

The day had gone fairly well thus far, in Draco's opinion. Granger'd said yes. They'd kissed again. They'd been able to send Hannah Abbott into shock. Then, with a good bit of persuasion on his part, they'd left to go for a Sunday morning stroll after their breakfast.

Yes, it was definitely a good day. That is, except for the multitude of stares.

Everyone stared, and he meant everyone. The odd part was that it wasn't even all that apparent that they were together. They hadn't held hands; they'd just walked side by side.

And the more they stared, the more nervous he became. Happiness was an odd thing, the way it usually had to be bought. Sweets: happiness at the price of either exercise or a bit of pudge. A racing broom: happiness at the price of galleons. A hug from his mother: happiness at the price of his pride and reputation. Safety: happiness at the price of killing one headmaster. Hermione Granger: happiness at the price of estrangement and possible bodily harm.

Was anything free these days? He'd heard once that some people actually buy oxygen the same way they'd buy whiskey. That didn't bode well for the world.

Inevitably, and he'd have given anyone one guess who'd been the one to suggest it, they'd ended up in the library in the evening. There were worse ways to spend St. Valentine's—that he knew firsthand. It was sort of nice, actually sitting with someone in there again. Usually if he had any company, it was that insufferable Greengrass, and he'd hardly call her company. She was more like a mosquito.

"Think Madam Pince is watching us?" he asked, flipping, for what might have been the thousandth time, to the glossary of his Ancient Runes text. Granger was whiling away her time by reading _Grieving for the Soul_, which was a bit of a waste. Amorell assigned chapters but never actually tested them on the material or even had them discuss it. Unless there was suddenly a Grief Counseling NEWT, he didn't see the point.

"I wouldn't put it past her," she murmured, turning a page in disgust—disgust at Pince or the book, he wasn't sure. "Funny," she said. "I'd thought the title of this was supposed to be a play on one of those Chicken Soup books, but I'm starting to think it actually is about the soul."

Draco had to stop and stare at her. "Chicken soup? It's not a cookbook, Granger," he admonished, surprised he even had to.

"_Chicken Soup for the Soul_. Never mind. You wouldn't understand the reference." She used her wand to wet her finger before turning the page. At least she wasn't a finger-licker. He hated that.

"All right, so what about the soul? Call it morbid curiosity."

"Didn't you read this?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Some."

She made a disapproving face, but it didn't look like she was about to argue with him about it. Who knew, maybe she even thought it would give her an edge in their competition. "Well, the title has dual meanings. It can either refer to the fact that grieving can be uplifting and help someone get on with life or it can refer to grieving for the soul itself."

"I… think I follow," he said carefully.

"And this soul in the second scenario, it can either refer to the griever's own or that of a grievee."

"Is that a word?"

"I don't think so. Anyway, so there's an underlying current about the nature of the soul itself and how, by nature, it must be flawed because everyone is." She paused. "It's kind of sad, really. Everyone gets broken and battered from time to time, and that affects self esteem and confidence in the world."

Draco felt his mouth going strangely dry, and he slumped in his seat, slightly light-headed. "So… you believe in it, then? The soul?"

She bit her lip. "Well, sort of. I mean, no one can really define what the soul is exactly, and one person's idea will vary with another's, especially if you get into religion, but… but there's this sort of… feeling. Like you yourself are not just your body, you know? Like when you're feeling especially emotional, and it all sort of gathers up in your chest—that's sort of how I think of it. There are too many schools of thought on it to just give a simple yes or no." She blushed suddenly.

"What? What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "Nothing, it's just that I find it, er, odd that I'm having this particular conversation—"

"With me." He nodded. He'd find it odd too, in her shoes. His brain didn't really want to think about runes anymore. He felt sort of off, not sick exactly, just sort of drained. "Think maybe we could go back to the common room?" he asked, though he didn't think he could stay where they were even if she said no.

"Sure. Are you… are you all right?"

He forced a grin. "Yeah. I just need a little lie-down, I think." He wasn't sure if that was what he needed or not. He had all the precursors of fainting, and this library was suddenly much too stuffy and much too crowded.

His eyes squeezed shut against the pinpricks and the light.

His father. He shouldn't be thinking about his father. Not now. But he knew that place. He knew just that constriction around his heart that she'd been talking about. And he knew what that bald woman at his father's Kiss ceremony had said, and he knew that grieving would not extract his father's soul from a dementor's bowels.

He felt weak and not just physically. It was like sixth year all over again when, for a brief time, he'd wished he could have been a Gryffindor just because all that bravery would have been helpful, would have made him stronger.

Granger willingly offered him an arm, and he forced himself not to sag against her. The air in the hallway was a little fresher, but it only helped a little. He just needed to lie down for awhile. That was all. He wasn't going to do something stupid. He wasn't going to pass out, and he certainly wasn't going to start crying like he had on Christmas.

Granger obviously sensed that something was amiss, and he sent her a small smile. Why couldn't it be her who was being all emotional? She was the female. She was the one with all those hormones to use as an excuse. But her parents had both survived, despite any possible side effects of having their memories modified. Her life wasn't drastically turned upside down and inside out and then tied in a knot and bleached for good measure.

Granger was persevering.

Hermione was living.

It felt like a very long trip down the corridor, and it was all he could do not to slouch against the door frame while she said the password to the stone statue of Merlin. As the door opened, and he stumbled into the room, he had to stop and blink for a moment as his stomach plummeted down into his feet, straddling his toes.

Ron Weasley did not look happy to see him, and that was most definitely an understatement. Weasley looked ready to kill. Weasley looked ready to pulverize.

"Ron." Granger's voice was unsteady as she took a step around Draco. The urge to simply keel over was overtaking his urge to run, and yet he kept standing there like the idiot he most likely was. An idiot who willingly sought out nice girls with jealous, vindictive, brute-like ex-boyfriends who don't happen to be wearing magic-inhibiting jewelry.

Granger placed one hand on Draco's shoulder, and for one blessed moment, his heart beat stronger and a sense of well-being came over him, but it was gone again as quickly as it had been come.

"Malfoy," Weasley snarled. His orange Cannons robes were torn and dirtied, and his knuckles were scraped up. Weasley looked as if he'd already been through Hell or high water and was now ready to return the favor wherever possible.

Draco'd known this was coming, even before Potter had suggested that he actually ask Granger out. He'd probably known it from the first time the idea of her as a girl had flashed through his formerly gelled head.

And so he closed his eyes and waited the necessary three-quarters of a second that it took for the other boy to either draw back his fist and punch or draw his wand and cast.

But the three-quarters stretched to four seconds, and nothing had happened, and so Draco opened his eyes.

"Ron," Granger warned again.

"Him?" Weasley asked. "Him! Hermione, why—what would possess—do you have any idea—Malfoy?" Weasley was fuming, his torn knuckles were flexing, but he wasn't pummeling. Yet.

Granger's face was peppered with pink patches, as if her skin didn't know what to make of her mood. "I," she began, "it's just—maybe we should sit down," she suggested. Draco would go for that idea. Frankly, he wasn't sure how he was still upright, what with the way the room was spinning around him like a fantastic parody of a carousel.

Weasley's eyes narrowed into slits, his forehead furrowing. "Fine," he barked. "We'll sit. And we'll talk. And you can give me any pathetic excuse you can why I shouldn't blast this tosser into the next millennium." Well, that wasn't so bad, considering the next millennium was less than a year away.

O

Malfoy looked awful. Ron looked awful. If she could see her own reflection, Hermione was sure she'd look awful too. She felt like she was getting hives just from the stress.

They sat down, Hermione purposely blocking the wilted flower that lay on the armrest of the couch. She'd forgotten all about it during the course of the day.

Ron crossed his arms, looking, well, cross. He'd purposely taken the seat next to her, forcing Malfoy over to the armchair. "Go on," he said through gritted teeth.

Her eyelids fluttered closed as she took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.

Hypocrite, hypocrite, _hypocrite!_ She was actually thankful Malfoy looked ill, otherwise he was bound to say something that would just make the situation worse. "It's complicated," she said delicately. Was there such a thing as anti-hyperbole? That would have been a prime example.

"Humor me," Ron said, his nostrils flexing.

Something clicked within Hermione's brain.

Ron's nostrils… those days in the orchard at the Burrow… Ron sneezing… all that pollen… the giddiness of being.

Such a hypocrite.

"I don't think you want to hear it," she said honestly.

All that honeysuckle in the orchard from that glorious summer. Ron had been her honeysuckle. What was its meaning? I love you.

She felt like such a horrid person. "Humor me," Ron stressed.

And so she did. "I like him," she said honestly, and she watched as Malfoy's chin jerked up to look at her.

"You like him," Ron repeated, not quite looking like he was prepared to believe such a tall tale.

"He's… changed. Sort of," she added. "I mean, he's still a git in some ways, but he's a sensitive git."

Malfoy frowned. "Thanks?" Ron ignored him.

"Sensitive?" Ron asked. "Sensitive? Hermione, men aren't supposed to be sensitive." He paused. "And if you say I have the emotional range of a teaspoon again, I'm not hearing it!"

"Well—do you really want to hear my reasons? I mean—" there was a card she could play, but she wasn't sure if she really should play it or not, "it's not like you've given me any reasons why you want to be with August, nor have I asked you for them. It's not my business."

Ron flushed. "You're right. It's not. But I'm not the one with Ferret-face!"

She sighed, exasperated. "Look, it's just…. There's this song that says, 'Seasons change and so did I. You need not wonder why.'"

_There's no time left for you._

Ron looked unimpressed. "So that's it? Don't ask? Hermione, you broke up with me like a bolt from the blue! And I—was it because of him? Were you just biding your time until you thought it had been long enough that you could move on without it looking suspicious?"

"No. Of course not! I already gave you my reasons!"

"And what were those again? Hmm?" he asked, gripping his armrest like he wanted to tear it off and throw it at something. "And don't just say it was because of August since _someone_ apparently can't help herself either."

She glared at him. "Well, _besides_ that, I—ugh! Please don't make me say it."

"You said there were other reasons. What were they? Why did you 'need to be selfish,' as you put it?" he demanded.

"Because," she sputtered, "because I realized that—" why did her reasons seem so stupid to her right then? "that I don't want to be with you like that! Not forever. I just realized that the idea of a future with you just… just sort of made me uncomfortable. It didn't feel right to me."

Ron stood, backing away from her. "Hermione, we were friends for years, _years!_ And now you're saying you can't imagine a happy future with me, but you might be able to with him? Do you have amnesia or something? Hermione, he stood by while his aunt tortured you in his house! You don't even know how broken I felt when I heard you screaming! Do you have any idea how much I would have given to have been in his place and been able to stop it instead of being trapped in those dungeons with a deranged ex-pet?"

Malfoy seemed to have woken up from whatever emotionally-induced coma he'd been in. "And you think I don't regret that now? You think I wanted that to happen? You think I wanted anything that happened that night to happen? I wanted you all to just disappear back to wherever you'd been before. I wanted my aunt gone and for my family to be the same as it had been before—before _He_ came back. This might be news to you, but I hated him too! Try being forced to live under the same roof as him, knowing he could kill your mother at any moment if you placed even a toe out of line. Try forcing yourself not to vomit while he's practically rotisserie-ing Professor Burbage over the dinner table, and then, once he's finally killed her—feeding her to his monstrosity of a pet snake!" There was an obvious mist of tears in his eyes, and he was shaking. "Don't try to think you know me at all!"

Something in Ron's expression had changed over the course of Malfoy's monologue. "You might honestly think you've change, but those spots of yours can only be dyed so often before you finally let them be. You're scum, always have been and always will be." Ron snarled. "Hermione, you're brilliant, but you've still got a lot of learning to do. Naïveté never suited you, so when you come to your senses, just say the word and I'll return his aunt's favor and _Crucio_ him into a pile of shuddering blond entrails." Ron stood. "And if I were you, Malfoy, I wouldn't close my eyes while in bed tonight."

With that, Ron swept from the common room, slamming the door behind him.

O

Draco felt the numbness fading from his limbs. He was still alive—very much in danger of being murdered in his sleep, but still: alive. "Are you all right?" he asked. Granger seemed to still be in shock. What had Potter been thinking? How could this possibly be better than a few stolen kisses behind everyone's backs?

Right, Potter'd been hoping to scare him into retreat. If only it had worked. But no, Draco'd had to fight for what he thought was right for once, even though it was probably a fool's errand. Dying didn't exactly aid in his pursuit of happiness.

"I think so," she said slowly. He couldn't begin to guess how hard this was on her. How he'd ever coerced her into agreeing to his proposal, he didn't think he'd ever know. By all accounts and means, it had been a miracle. Bloody Deus ex Machina.

"You really are a Gryffindor," he found himself saying.

"How's that?"

"You're brave. You're very, very brave."

"And foolish too, I suppose?" she asked, looking green.

He smiled, surprised he could even do so right then. "Only where I'm concerned."

Granger bent forward, eyes seeking out something on the floor, and she stood slowly to retrieve it. The Valentine's Day Witch Weekly issue showed Celestina Warbeck in a very pink outfit, but one of the article headlines caught his eye:

"Star-crossed Love at Hogwarts? Malfoy Son and Hermione Granger Rumored to be an Item, article page 54."

A.N. I was planning to update on Saturday—you know, a Valentine's Day chapter on Valentine's Day itself. But… hmm, I think I'll be good to you all and update a few days early. This chapter was… wow, quite the experience, writing-wise. I hope everyone got the reference to the honeysuckle from the beginning of the first chapter. I know that was an awfully long time ago. In fact, it's two and a half weeks before this story turns one year old!

Also, the song lyrics mentioned, including the chapter title, are from "No Time" by Guess Who. (Yes, that's the name of the band. I'm not asking you to guess!)


	27. Tacking on Malfoy

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 27—Tacking on Malfoy

There was no one good place in Hogwarts where someone could go to take a nap without fear of being found by an enemy and hexed into a cube, apparently. Draco'd looked. If it were warmer out, he might try a nice nap under a tree—one besides the Whomping Willow. If his fellow Slytherins hadn't turned on him when his power (of any definition) had been taken away, he could have perhaps slipped into his old common room in the dungeons and taken a snooze on his favorite black chaise lounge. If he'd been taking History of Magic, that would have been a guaranteed hour of undisturbed sleep, the gentle drone of Binns' lecture serving as a lullaby.

The only truly safe place he could think of was the Hospital Wing, but unfortunately Madam Pomfrey had a strict "You must be ill, petrified, maimed, or otherwise impaired" policy, and he didn't think she'd let him stay there in order to prevent him from being maimed in his sleep.

In short, Draco was sleepy.

And so, the rest of February passed by in a blur of Weasley-dodging, awkward dating, Ribbon-the-gossip-columnist's-daughter-loathing, and that thing called schoolwork.

O

Ginny was staring at her, and not very discretely, either. Hermione felt just a little bit uncomfortable as she chopped up the slimy red growth that might be called a mandrake heart if mandrakes actually had circulatory systems. Ginny was at the next table with Ron and Harry, as usual. But Hermione… Hermione was next to Malfoy, as per the _new_ usual. The divide of the aisle was a literal one and, unfortunately, a figurative one as well.

Malfoy—Draco—whatever she was supposed to call him now—was half-slumped over his cauldron, stirring with the fervor of someone with very little fervor. Honestly, he looked like he was about one second from falling asleep with his head in his cauldron. Inadvisable.

It wasn't that Harry or Ginny had abandoned her or that she had abandoned them. Things were just… awkward. Like right then. With Ginny staring. She continued chopping, trying to get the exact diagonal cut described in her potions book.

Candanver actually had a sleep mask on to block out the light, not that there was an especially large amount of light in the dungeons in the first place, and he had his head on a pillow resting on his desk.

She could certainly see McGonagall's reasoning behind sacking him. Considering Dumbledore had had to drag Slughorn out of retirement to get him to take the Potions position, it actually made some sense why McGonagall had hired Candanver and why she was even considering Malfoy as a replacement. The Potions position must have been nearly as difficult to hire for as the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. Which was why Hermione felt the extra urge to give herself a pat on the back for being offered the more competitive position available.

A small smile tugged at her lips at that thought: Professor Hermione Jean Granger, Transfiguration Professor and successor to Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.

Malfoy's free hand settled onto her knee, his other hand still stirring in a lazy ark around his pewter cauldron.

Professor Hermione Jean Malfoy, Transfiguration Profess—

Her knife slipped, the diagonal chop going in the completely wrong direction, and it took her a quarter second to right the handle. Her eyes flashed to Ginny, wondering if the other girl had noticed her slip-up, but the Head Girl had turned away to dig through her book bag. On Hermione's other side, Malfoy's eyelids were drooping.

This was natural. This was completely natural. They were dating. What girl didn't replace her own surname with that of her boyfriend at least once just to give it a go in her head and see if it sounded nice or not? She'd certainly mused over Hermione Jean Weasley enough times in the past. She'd even substituted Finnegan into her name once, not that _that_ particular crush had lasted more than five minutes after a disturbing dream involving Seamus serenading her while wearing an outfit completely made out of pages from the encyclopedia.

She'd once overheard Lavender and Parvati randomly pairing off their own first names with that of every single male in the school, including Flitwick (to many giggles). Surely just because the name Parvati Flitwick had once been uttered didn't mean anything, so why should this?

Her brain was beginning to hurt.

It wasn't a completely awful name by any means, at least syllabically, though there was a certain trippiness between the M in her name and the M in his. She couldn't say she cared for the fact that Malfoy meant "bad faith" whatsoever, nor could she really push all of the connotations of the name out of sight and out of mind. She couldn't even bring herself to call him by his first name, after all, and so his surname was just so very _him_.

That him was her boyfriend. She kept forgetting that.

His hand was petting her knee just as lazily as he was stirring, as per the laws of "tummy rub, head pat." She couldn't quite conjure up an image of him doing the same for Pansy back when they'd been an item. She had a hard enough time reconciling with the fact that he seemed capable of sweetness of any measure.

He stopped stirring. "About bloody time," he muttered, removing his spoon. "Wake me if he wakes up." He put out the flame beneath his cauldron, folded one arm onto the tabletop, and sunk his forehead into his elbow, his other hand still resting complacently on her knee.

Ron glanced over, his expression almost unreadable, and Hermione felt herself stiffen. She had this funny little itch in her fingertips to reach over and comb them through the soft blond hairs at the back of Malfoy's head. Just putting her head on his shoulder sounded pretty appealing at the moment too. Just something… calming. Something to let her know that this decision she'd made had been based on something. That all this was worth it.

Malfoy's hand moved from her knee to her upper thigh, and she scooped up his wrist and replaced it on her knee.

She could have sworn a smirk peeked out from the little bit of his mouth that was still visible.

O

His mother, apparently, had not heard the news. Whether it was by chance, miracle, or simply because the Ministry had made it especially difficult for her to communicate with the outside world without having to file official requests—and, coincidentally, she was having almost as much difficulty getting old acquaintances to pay her any attention as Draco was—he didn't know.

But his mother definitely did not know, if her latest letter were anything to go by.

He'd assumed, falsely, that she'd either hear it through the mystical grapevine or read it in Witch Weekly, and that he would get an aghast letter from her asking if the rumors were true. Instead, he'd gotten a dull letter about how she'd rearranged the furniture in the third floor drawing room.

It had been over two weeks. There was an unwritten code somewhere that said he was supposed to tell her if he suddenly started dating outside of his pedigree—strike that, there was an unwritten code that said he was supposed to tell her if he started dating anyone. That wasn't to say he told his mother everything. Hardly. But this wasn't the sort of thing she'd appreciate learning four months or so after the fact when the grapevine finally caught up with her.

Which led him to the interesting question of how exactly one does go about telling one's mother that one has aligned oneself romantically with Harry Potter's muggle-born best friend with all that "wild, floofy hair." (His mother's description after the World Cup.)

He wasn't sure a letter (or a Witch Weekly clipping) was going to cut it.

His forehead fell onto his crossed arms, which were resting on a tabletop in the library. Granger'd momentarily abandoned him to go to the loo. Now that his head was down, he found himself not wanting to lift it again. His brain was in an utter funk. He hadn't heard the reassuring sound of Weasley's snores until nearly three in the morning, and then he'd had to go about sleeping through those snores. Weasley's next match couldn't come any sooner, in Draco's opinion.

The sound of footsteps was followed by the sound of a chair being drawn out beside him. "You sure you wouldn't rather go back to the common room?" he asked, not bothering to raise his head to make his words less muffled.

"Is that an invitation? Mine or yours?" His head sprang up. Astoria Greengrass was occupying Granger's chair, stretched out comfortably in a decadent slouch—an oxymoron only a Slytherin could truly appreciate.

"You again," he groaned. "Determined little thing, aren't you?"

She smiled coyly. "Of course. Niceties aside, how are things with the little miss? Is she everything you've dreamed of and more?"

He yawned. "You're stalkerishly observant; you tell me."

"Unfortunately, I haven't perfected my method of spying on dreams." He was marginally sure she was kidding about that.

"Considering I was nearly asleep a minute ago, that's almost reassuring. Now, if you don't mind the Pig Latin, amscray."

"I don't think so." Her eyes flickered to something below her, and she bent forward, her fingers stretching gingerly to snatch up a small piece of parchment from Granger's book bag.

"Hey!" he began, scrambling to take it away from her, but one little prod of her wand in his direction had him backing off, scowling at her. He hated feeling like such a vulnerable coward all of the time, not even able to defend his girlfriend's scratch paper.

She sniffed. "That's better." Her eyes flicked to the parchment, and for a moment her expression was utterly neutral until one little tug at the corner of her mouth had her smirking like, well, _him._ "Oh, this is rich." She laughed lightly, her eyes flitting back and forth between him and the parchment. "It's about you," she said saccharinely. "Would you like to know what it says?"

Draco's mouth went strangely dry as he eyed the little slip of paper. Did he want to know what it said? Unconsciously, he found himself redirecting his gaze to the library door, where Granger was due to reappear at any moment.

Left side of the scale: Sudden and abject burning curiosity.

Right side of the scale: Granger finding out he'd gone through her things, even if Greengrass was the one who was technically at fault.

"What's the matter? Conscience actually plaguing you?" Greengrass asked. "You really have gotten soft. Can't even read an itty bitty note." She grinned. "Well then, no matter. _I_ don't have that problem. Ahem," her eyes returned to the note, "Professor Hermione Jean—"

"What are you doing?" Granger stood before them, wand out and hands on her hips, scowling. Luckily, her glare seemed to be directed at Astoria, not him. For the moment, anyway.

Greengrass's smirk returned. "Practicing your signature? It's very nice, though I think you should make that Y a little more loopy." With that, she dropped the parchment, stretched, and left, not stopping to listen as Granger called out a point reduction at her.

There was a brief pause before Granger turned around again, her hand darting out to grab the parchment before he could catch a glimpse at it. There were identical patches of pink on either of her cheeks. "Did you have anything to do with this?"

He shook his head mutely. Her glare had been redirected, and it was the tiniest bit scary. "Trust me, she was acting on her own."

Granger nodded, her fingers flexing around the parchment in her hand. A Y? There was no Y in her name, not unless she had a second middle name.

But—his thought stopped as if hit by a train. Greengrass had said the note was about him, hadn't she? And that Granger'd been practicing her signature? Unless she planned to rename herself Grangery, then….

She'd practiced writing her name? With Malfoy tacked on?

"How… how old is that?" he asked, gesturing helplessly. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it said Weasley—that was one of the few common traits he'd openly admit to sharing with the git, that common Y at the ends of their names.

Why was he trying to imagine her note saying Weasley?

Her voice dripped with suspicion. "Why do you ask?"

"Why are you asking why I'm asking?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Draco," she warned. And just like that, her eyes popped open wider, the glare vanishing as her surprise took over.

"Did you just call me…?" he began, honestly thankful for any excuse to change the subject, even if the subject had merely been changed from his last name to his first.

"I… yes." She looked slightly dumbstruck.

He felt a smile creeping onto his face. "You like me," he declared quietly, feeling oddly triumphant.

She raised an eyebrow, though not quite as well as he typically raised his own. "You think?" she asked sarcastically.

He stood to walk around the table to stand in front of her. "I know."

O

His index finger rose to dip delicately below her chin and up, until it was just at the crest, and he tilted her head up. "Well, how about that?" he asked, and the way he was looking at her made her involuntarily stiffen. He frowned. "Something wrong?"

That depended on his definition of wrong. "We're in the library."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning," she took a breath, feeling suddenly nervous, "that if you're going to do what I think you're going to do, I think it should be elsewhere." Heaven help her. There was something very peculiar about giving Draco Malfoy permission to snog her.

"Well, then," he turned to gather up their things and offered her an arm, "shall we?" He had a twinkle in his eye that would have rivaled Dumbledore's. He led her from the library out into the corridor, and then he paused, frowning. "Confession: no clue where to go."

She paused, quickly running through possible spots where they could have some privacy. An empty classroom? She hated disrespecting the sanctity of the learning environment. A broom closet? Certainly not. The Astronomy Tower? Filch guarded that area with his life. The Owlery? Far too dirty. The common room? Too public. The grounds?

The grounds were acceptable. Just cold.

"I suppose the common room," she said, failing to think of anywhere else other than a completely random corridor.

He nodded in agreement, looking slightly antsy. Ron had been watching them far too often, rarely giving them any real chance to be alone.

An idea suddenly occurred to her. "Come on," she said, and they made their way to the stone statue of Merlin before giving the password and going in. The room was empty for the moment. "Stay here; I'll be back," she mumbled, going down the spiral staircase. She hesitated a moment before turning the door knob into the girls' dormitory. Sure enough, August was sitting on her bed, doing a magical crossword puzzle, which rearranged itself every few minutes.

Well, here goes nothing. "Um, August?"

The other girl lifted her head to look at her. "Yeah?"

"I was wondering," Hermione began. "Do you think that maybe you could, um, distract Ron for awhile?"

August's brows furrowed. "Why?"

"Well," this idea of hers was starting to make her feel very awkward, "it's just that he…."

"Keeps showing up and glaring at you?" August suggested.

"That's about right."

August groaned. "Look, I'm happy for you and blondie, but I don't think you realize how awful this whole situation is for me. Ron is my boyfriend, and watching him get jealous like this _hurts_. Most girls in my situation would be seriously angry with you right now. I may have risen above that, but… if the situation were reversed, would you do that for me? If, say, I'd dated Malfoy and he were jealous of Ron?"

"You what?" Padma asked, pushing past Hermione into the room.

"Nothing," August grunted, and she waited a moment for Padma to roll her eyes. "Well, would you? Knowing he was thinking of another girl the whole time you're 'distracting' him?"

"I… guess not." Hermione sighed. "I'm sorry about this, you know."

August nodded. "I know."

Hermione left, going back up the stairs to where Malfoy sat on the couch. "Maybe a locking charm?" he suggested, looking hopeful. He patted the cushion next to him, and she reluctantly sat down, biting her lip.

He frowned then. "You don't want to now, do you?" he asked, reading the silent look on her face.

"Not really," she admitted.

He leaned his head back. "Too much planning spoiled the mood." He yawned. "I think I'm in for a nap, anyway." She watched as his head slid down to the armrest. "Don't worry, though," he said, sounding about half a minute from REM sleep, "someday we'll have plenty of privacy." A smirk curled at the corner of his lips. "When we're the professors Malfoy," he added teasingly.

Hermione's mouth hung open. So he had figured out what that idiotic piece of scratch paper had said. She was about to berate him, tell him that it wasn't anything to get worked up about—that it was just a normal thing that girls do and that he wasn't meant to have ever, _ever_ known about it—but a light snore stopped her.

He looked so peaceful, just leaning there asleep. Whatever she felt about him, which she really couldn't say with any certainty, she did know there was one thing she wouldn't mind doing, and so she did. She dropped her head onto his shoulder, soaking in the warm comfort.

O

A.N. The last scene of this chapter was threatening to drive me insane, and I'm still not totally satisfied. I'm blaming that and a horrific amount of homework for the delay in updating.


	28. April is a Time of Pilgrimage

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 28—April is a Time of Pilgrimage

Malfoy had convinced her to take a study break. Since when was anyone ever able to convince her to take a study break? It just never—all right, seldom—happened. But here she was, sitting outside, leaning against his chest as he leaned against a tree.

Spring was in the air, as cliché as that may sound. Some of the trees were flowering with white and pink buds, and it was definitely warmer out. She'd missed the vitamin D.

Malfoy shifted her hair to the side and pressed his lips to the side of her head, just above her ear. Ron, Harry and Ginny were all playing a just-for-fun game of Quidditch together, and Hermione was temporarily enjoying the peace and quiet.

Ron was slowly starting to give up. His ire was still present, but he was getting lazy about it. Besides, he had August, and it seemed that the other girl had snapped him back to her attention.

Malfoy's nose found the hollow in the cartilage in her ear. "I could get used to this," he whispered, brushing his lips against her lobe teasingly.

Weirdly enough, so could she. His arms felt warm and safe around her, and she'd missed that. She missed just being held, though with him it wasn't quite the same as it had been with her parents when she'd been little.

He squeezed her a little, moving his lips down… down… onto her neck, and her breath caught.

There was a squawking sound nearby, and they both looked to see a raven staring at them from a few feet away, its head tilted to the side.

"Think it's a bad omen?" Malfoy asked, his chest rumbling as he chuckled.

"Yes," Hermione answered decisively, "it means I need to get back to studying for NEWTs."

His arms tightened around her. "I don't know about that." One hand lifted to turn her chin towards him, and he bent to press his lips to hers, nipping leisurely.

The raven squawked.

O

Hermione didn't recognize the owl that swooped down and landed next to her bowl of porridge, and it flew away as soon as she'd removed the accompanying letter.

Ginny bobbed her head in the letter's direction. "What do you have—is that from Narcissa Malfoy?" she asked, and Hermione froze, letter half turned up.

Sure enough, it was signed with a very curly N. Malfoy—the Y in her signature would certainly have been loopy enough for Astoria Greengrass's taste.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed, reading over it quickly, "and—she's invited me for tea on Saturday," she added, her mouth going significantly dry.

"She's," Ginny paused. "Wait, what?"

"She invited me to Malfoy Manor for tea," Hermione repeated. "Tomorrow at three."

Tomorrow? That was soon. Almost too soon. Mrs. Malfoy hadn't even asked her to R.S.V.P.—not that there was much time for it—which Hermione supposed meant that this tea wasn't optional. She could either show up or risk insulting her boyfriend's mum, and neither sounded especially pleasant—and Hermione's last and only visit to Malfoy Manor had definitely been anything but pleasant and, come to think of it, had been almost exactly a year prior.

"Too bad Malfoy can't go with you," Ginny pointed out.

Hermione nodded, silently agreeing. There was a certain awful irony in the fact that the mother and son weren't allowed to meet until one or the other's sentence was up, and yet Hermione was freely able to visit both.

She closed her eyes, briefly remembering that scene she'd witnessed on the Hogwarts Express Platform back in September, how Malfoy and his mother had both seemed broken.

Harry had told her in an aside about Narcissa's devotion to her son during the Final Battle, how she'd helped Harry and defied Voldemort. That part of the woman's personality Hermione found commendable.

Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be so bad. Maybe the woman would be willing to allow anything that would make her son happy, including letting a muggleborn within ten feet of her son.

Or maybe it would be horrible and Hermione would be forever grateful that the woman wasn't allowed to use magic. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to stop in Hogsmeade first and buy a bezoar, just in case that tea happened to be poisoned.

O

Draco was used to being stared at. Just not so much by Luna Lovegood. That Luna girl was most definitely staring, or, at least, she was drifting off into space with her head turned exactly in his direction and her eyes glazed over toward his own.

That girl was just… he didn't even know how to describe her. Freaky, maybe. He wondered if Thomas were only dating her because he was scared of the consequences of breaking it off. Lovegood was liable to do something, for the lack of a better word, weird, maybe hex the bloke into growing Easter lilies out of his ears.

"Do you mind?" he finally asked, growing increasingly uncomfortable. Lovegood didn't appear even slightly fazed.

"Your mother's initials are N.C.B.M., aren't they?" she asked, her voice drifting to him on a much too calm lilt.

"Yes…" he answered slowly.

"I thought so." And with that, Lovegood turned around and drifted away.

Okay. Weird. Definitely the best word choice.

O

Hermione bit her lip as she waited for Malfoy to arrive in the first class they had together for the day, which happened to be Arithmancy. Vector was due in roughly six and a half minutes, according to the simple formula Hermione had concocted over the course of the last five years, mostly based on the distance between the teachers' lounge and the classroom with the added variable of the number of male professors likely to have been flirting with her.

Malfoy slipped in at about four minutes till, taking his seat next to her and stretching his arms back behind his head, his manacle jangling as he did so. "Something wrong?" he asked, his head half turned in her direction.

He was eying her lip. He did that a lot.

She nodded, ducking her head to reach into her bag and also to hide her blush. She wasn't sure she was ever going to get used to—_this_. Having Malfoy looking at her like a raspberry truffle on a gold platter instead of a piece of gum on the underside of his shoe. It was a nice change, of course, just a drastic flip-flop from the old norm.

"Here," she finally said, handing over the letter she'd received from his mum. He took it, not seeming to realize what it was at first, if the fact that he buckled about two seconds into reading it was even slightly telltale.

He looked up, wetting his lips. "Are you going?" There was a strange look on his face, one she hadn't been expecting. Then again, she wasn't sure what she had been expecting. Hopeful, however, had not been it.

"You… want me to?" she asked, incredulous despite herself.

He shifted, almost antsy. "Well—" and then he looked guilty. "I haven't told her," he said in a rush, so fast Hermione almost thought he'd said something else.

"You—"

"She knows now, obviously," he pointed out. "But," and now he was almost defensive, "have you told your parents?"

"Sort of…." She'd told them she was dating someone new; she'd just happened to have left out whom.

He looked pointedly at her. Point made. This wasn't really a normal "go out and tell everyone with all due excitement" relationship. If anything, downplaying it made more sense on both their parts.

He turned his desk a fraction to face her better, and he held up the letter. "This," he said, "this is a good sign. Civility is a good sign, and…." He trailed off, almost as if he'd swallowed his tongue.

"And?" she prompted.

"Nothing." Which was code for something.

She leveled her stare at him. "You're sure?"

His head tilted to the side. "I—she," he quickly amended, "hasn't seen me since September. I'm sure she'll be happy to speak in person to someone who's been around me lately."

Hermione's head tilted to mirror his. "And… is there anything you'd like me to say to her?" she asked, nudging at the unspoken truth.

"Then you are going?" The hopefulness was back, peeking around a wary caution.

She nodded quickly before she could change her mind. "It would be polite," she said, hoping she wasn't offending him by being reticent about meeting with his mum.

That smile that undid her was back, turning her knees to jelly and making her glad she was already sitting. The door opened, and Vector came in, trailed by the other students. "I'll write something for you to give her," he said, and then he straightened his desk, and it was as if nothing had happened. Or it would have been. He had a glow.

O

The letter McGonagall had sent in August inviting her back for her eighth year had specifically mentioned that Eighth Years would have free rein to go to Hogsmeade at any time, as well as other perks. McGonagall probably hadn't had Hermione leaving for Wiltshire on a random weekend in April in mind, but if Ron were allowed to spend half his time training with the Cannons, then Hermione was certainly allowed to go to tea with Narcissa Malfoy.

That didn't stop Hermione from feeling like a bit of a daredevil by simply walking to the Hogwarts gates, Malfoy in stride beside her to see her off. Having an overactive conscience is annoying and nonsensical like that.

"Concentrate on a large white birch tree. That'll get you just outside the grounds. Tap the bell on the gate with your wand to request permission to enter…. Can you picture it all right?" he asked, looking slightly wary. "I'd rather not have you splinching yourself."

"Appreciated, but I'll be fine." That's what she told herself, anyway. At the moment, the thought of part of her body getting stuck in an object or being left behind, though unfriendly, was not the scariest thing on her mind. Going there was bad enough. Going there to have a spot of tea with Draco Malfoy's mum in order to discuss their relationship? Terrifying.

"You don't have to do this." He'd taken hold of her hand, and if it weren't for that faint hopeful spark about him, he might have actually looked sincere.

"Oh, I _know_." She glanced briefly at the letter he'd given her to give his mother, which Hermione considered a form of insurance. Life insurance, that is. He gave her hand a squeeze before she pulled away. She closed her eyes once outside the gates, willing herself to concentrate on that white birch. Her memories of the manor were disordered and confused, along with the majority of her memories from the year before, but thinking hard enough, she could just make out the outline of the surrounding area before, with a surging pop, she Disapparated.

Hermione didn't stumble when she arrived, though it took her a moment to regain her equilibrium as the world trembled around her. It was a beautiful day in Wiltshire, the sun shining down through the branches of the birch and dappling the grass in light and darkness.

It had been dark when she'd been there before, and neither she, Harry, nor Ron had been in a healthy frame of mind. There was a cheerfulness in that sunshine that seemed alien now.

The gate, which she was sure she didn't recall, was some twenty meters off, and she followed Malfoy's direction, tapping her wand against a green calcified copper bell. She'd wager that a matching bell was ringing somewhere within the house, alerting some poor elf that the mistress had company.

She checked her watch. It was four till.

There was suddenly a whooshing sound as vines began untwisting from the gate, allowing it to swing open creaklessly. She had to take a few hasty steps backward to avoid being hit.

Well, here went nothing.

The grounds were beautifully maintained, flowers blooming among arbors and topiaries that lined the cobblestone path that led to the front door. A white peacock squawked and strutted nearby, eyeing her when she passed it. Off to the side, she could see young vegetable plants growing in a slightly more haphazard manner.

The door swung open just as she was preparing to knock, Narcissa Malfoy herself standing there and staring down.

O

The hairs on the back of Draco's neck stood on end, and before he could turn around, a flash of amber light beamed past the side of his head, just narrowly missing him.

Granger had only just Disapparated, and now what was this? An ambush?

"Stay where you are." Something that felt suspiciously like a wand pushed into his back. Whoever it was didn't sound familiar. Maybe that was the point, though.

"What do you want?"

The wand pushed farther into his back, jammed into his left kidney. "A blood traitor like you should have a fair idea what it is that I want."

Blood traitor. In the past, Draco'd always been the one calling other people that, and now it seemed strange to be called it himself. He wasn't sure it should apply to him. It wasn't like he was a Muggle enthusiast, like Arthur Weasley. But dating a muggle-born would constitute treachery to the majority of Slytherin House. "You're not really answering the question very well."

"And you shouldn't be talking back," the person hissed.

Draco closed his eyes, his vision blurring all of a sudden. He should have known something like this would happen sooner or later, unarmed Slytherin dating Hermione Granger and all. His mind raced as the sweat started cropping up at the base of his neck. His options were limited. Even if he had his wand, his options would still be limited. But….

But he did have his wand, he belatedly realized. There was a buzzing in his ears. If he could just….

"Think you're clever, don't you?" the person said. "Think you're the king of the world. Ex-seeker, the Dark Lord's little helper, a _Malfoy_." The person spat. "Tell me, what right do you think you have to soil your line? What right do you have to end one of the last remaining truly pure strands in the wizarding fabric? There are families that would kill to marry you to their daughters." The pressure of the wand lessened, but then it began to trail along his lower back, up and around his spine in a lazy pattern of eights and infinity signs. "Your line shouldn't go to waste, _Malfoy_." There was something in the voice, something in the tone, something in the eerie trail of the wand… something that told him a fact that had never before made him fearful: the speaker was a girl, and from the sound of it, a girl who had unladylike thoughts running through her head.

Hot breath blew on his neck. "Rest assured, you will not be the last of your pure blood."

"Greengrass?" Draco guessed, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

There was a laugh. "You'd think, wouldn't you? But no." More breath. "She's all talk. Me, I'm into action."

O

"Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione said, trying her best to keep her voice calm and respectful.

"Miss Granger," she replied, and then, in a clipped tone: "Follow me." Narcissa turned and started down the hallway. The inside of the house was immaculate, though it seemed bare in some places, as if some of the furniture had been gotten rid of—sold, maybe.

They went up two flights of stairs and arrived in a sitting room, where a small spread of tea, six finger sandwiches, and three scones sat on a table. Hermione eyed them warily. "Is someone else coming?" she asked. There were three place settings instead of two.

"In a moment," Narcissa replied, taking her seat and pouring herself a cup of tea. Hermione followed suit, though she found herself waiting for her hostess to take a sip before she did. Narcissa drank some and set down her cup in its saucer before taking a long, calculating look at her. "I suppose you know why I've asked you here?" she asked.

"I have an idea," Hermione responded, setting her own tea cup down.

A moment of silence passed between them. Narcissa's eyes were very blue, unlike her son's, but they were shaped similarly, and Hermione was suddenly struck by the number of similarities she actually could identify now. It was more than just physically; there was something in the way Narcissa sat, something in her expression, something familiar in an almost calming sort of way. "Why did you come?"

Hermione paused and took another sip, resisting the urge to ask why she thought she had come. "Because," she began, "it seemed best." She slipped her hand into her robe pocket and took out the letter Malfoy had given her and handed it to the woman sitting across from her.

Narcissa didn't read it straightaway, instead continuing to stare at her. There was something in her gaze that didn't seem right. It was sad, almost… regretful? The woman's eyes flicked down to the letter, reading it over as Hermione took a sandwich that she had no intention of eating. When she was done reading, she let out a soft sigh, and that was it.

Hermione nudged the corner of her sandwich with her finger, and tried to look around the room. It was well-kept. Slightly barren. There was one very large portrait of a sixteenth century nobleman with a haughty expression and a hunting dog at his side. Both nobleman and dog were giving her the stink eye. Other than that, the walls were completely bare.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione said slowly, "why _did_ you invite me here?"

As if on cue, the door to the drawing room swung open again, and standing in the archway was a familiar face. Her hair was lank, and she had a slightly gaunt look about her that didn't quite match the swell of her pregnant stomach. Pansy Parkinson was staring at Hermione with a slightly alien expression: not quite contempt, not quite revulsion, not quite exhaustion, not quite defeat, but definitely not pleasure. There was a manacle around her bony left wrist.

O

A.N. Two cliffhangers? What am I thinking? You're all going to threaten me with very sharp pencils, aren't you? Would it help if I blamed the plot bunny? …Yeah, didn't think so.

Quoth the raven, "Oh dear."


	29. Flower Child

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 29—Flower Child

Note: Younger readers, like, say, under thirteen, should be forewarned of violent and/or not so pleasant themes. Don't send your mothers after me!

"Did you know, Granger, that they let pregnant women out of Azkaban? I didn't. Still, they slapped this damnable cuff on my wrist." Pansy moved very slowly to her seat at the table, poured herself a cup of tea, and started eating with a wildness that reminded Hermione of Sirius eating his rats. "Do you know why I got put away in the first place?" she asked between bites. "Kedavra'd an auror. Like no one else did." She frowned, shoving an entire finger sandwich into her mouth. "They also said something about me being cheeky. Are you going to eat that?" she asked, and grabbed up the sandwich from Hermione's plate and took a bite, her own sandwich still only half-chewed in her mouth, masticated white bread and chicken salad peeking out as she spoke.

Hermione took a glance at Narcissa, who was looking out the window instead of at either of the young women.

"Your, er, baby," Hermione found herself saying. "Is it…?"

"Why do you think you're here, Granger? Of course it's Draco's. Hell, why do you think I'm here?" Pansy laughed, a funny bitter laugh. "He doesn't know, of course. Mrs. M. seems to be ashamed of me. My parents too. Why add Draco into the ring of shame? Better to spare him the deep dark 'scawy' details," she said in a baby voice. Pansy rolled her eyes. "You'll have to excuse me. I've taken a very cynical view these last few months. They didn't release me from Azkaban until I was showing—almost lost him." On the last word, she placed a protective hand over her belly, rubbing affectionately, an alien look of pride washing over her face.

Hermione was starting to feel lightheaded, and she gripped the edge of the table. Narcissa still wasn't looking at either of them. Pregnant in Azkaban. _Pregnant in Azkaban_. The thought just wouldn't leave her head. Hermione couldn't even imagine it. _Pregnant in Azkaban_. Pregnant with Draco's child.

Oh, Lord. _Malfoy._ She felt a sudden rush of bile in her throat.

"I conceived the first of August, by the way," Pansy said, not seeming to care that the grandmother of her child was at the table. "So I'm due in a couple weeks. It could be any day now."

"Congratulations," Hermione found herself saying, for lack of anything else to say.

Pansy shoved some of her black hair behind her ear, scrutinizing Hermione from her seat. "I want you to know that I laughed and laughed and laughed when I saw that Witch Weekly. Mrs. M. doesn't subscribe. Daphne's the only other one besides my parents who knows I'm here; she sent it to me. Funniest thing I've ever read. Nearly gave me a hernia from laughing so hard." She broke off a bit of scone. "I thought it was a joke, but here you are, so I guess it's not."

"No. Not a joke," Hermione said.

Narcissa still wasn't looking at them. Pansy seemed to follow Hermione's gaze. "Of course, _she_ didn't think it was a joke. Real funny stuff, that." Pansy lowered her voice, as if she were being conspiratorial. "She expected it."

"She…?" Hermione turned to face Narcissa. "What?"

Mrs. Malfoy turned slowly and took up her tea cup, though she didn't drink, and her eyes settled on Hermione. "What you might not be aware of, Miss Granger, is that nine months ago, _before_ Miss Parkinson conceived, I fell into a trance while visiting a Seer, hoping to find out my family's future. Instead of hearing a prophecy, I prophesied instead." There was a subtle rush like typhoon waters in Hermione's ears, steadily growing into a gale of magnificent proportions. "From the riddle of a prediction, I was able to devise one thing for certain, and your Professor Trelawney was my witness." Her head tilted to the side. "You and my son were to fall in love in the space of one year's time."

O

Every nerve in his body, every taut muscle and sinew, was telling him to run, but his brain knew better.

Girls weren't supposed to be rapists. It just went against the grain. Her wand was still pointed into his back, and he expected that anytime now, he'd be hit with something: Imperio, maybe, or perhaps a good old Petrificus totallus.

Out of habit more than anything else, Draco kept his wand in his robe pocket. Little good it would do for him, but there was a certain loophole that he could take advantage of. He closed his eyes, envisioning the bath drain and faucet, and he opened them again to stare plainly at the Hogwarts gate, just five or six feet away.

It couldn't be that easy, could it? Granger had said the metal had done it. The metal had counteracted the manacle. Draco was no expert on metals by any means, other than having a pretty decent appreciation for the differences between gold, silver, platinum, and copper. It really wasn't safe to assume that he'd be able to use his wand if he just placed his hand between the bars of the gate, but at this point, it was either that or allow for a crazed blood purist to force him into getting her pregnant, and that would never do, and he had a feeling she'd probably prefer to dispose of him afterward than let him go on his merry way to report her to the Ministry—assuming she let him find out who she was.

"Are you sure you want to do this to yourself?" he asked, hoping that if he deferred the reason for stopping this onto her physical well-being, she might take it better.

"Am I sure I want to have your blood traitor bastard?" she asked, a maniacal note in her voice. She was definitely a girl. There was no doubt about that now, though the voice had been disguised with a spell. "If I don't, who will? We all have to make sacrifices for the greater good of continuing our lines." She kicked him in the Achilles' tendon. "You're not carrying your load, so I'll carry it for you."

Well, there was a pun.

"And," Draco's synapses were misfiring in his head, trying to make connections, give him some sort of thought that might help in this situation, "you… you don't honestly think I'm with Granger for good, do you?"

Whoever she was snorted. "Even if you do end it with her, what pureblood of worth would have you?"

Touché.

"Enough stalling," she said, and she jammed her wand into his ribs.

"Wait!" Draco cried, the adrenaline pumping through his system making him convulse. "At least tell me who you are. At least tell me who the mother of my child will be?"

"Ha! So you can report me? Unlikely."

"But… but what if we do this the easy way." Oh, Hell. "What if I let you? Then it wouldn't be a crime. And you'd be carrying my child, so I'd want you safe, wouldn't I?"

There was a moment of hesitation in which the wand slackened, and Draco practically flew forward, not even thinking. His hand dove into his pocket for his wand, and he lunged at the gate, making it swing forward, tottering as his foot took hold on the lower rung. He swung himself to the backside of the gate, so that he stood facing his attacker while peeping through bars. Two more feet and he'd be outside of the grounds, the gate at a fifteen degree angle from the rest of the fence, and while he'd never tested the theory, something told him that he wouldn't make it through the invisible barrier.

There was another flash of color that just barely missed him as he jammed his manacled fist through the gap between two bars, his wand pointed at….

At Una Maroo. Despite the urge to attack and save himself from certain peril, he couldn't help but blink once at her. Una Maroo? She was a Seventh Year in Slytherin House and happened to be in his Potions class. She was most well-known for her extremely long blonde hair, poorly groomed fringe, and her overbite, but other than that… had he ever even spoken to her before?

She frowned at him. "And what good is that? You can't leave the grounds and you can't use your wand; you've fenced yourself in—literally. Thank you for that," she said, and she began to raise her wand.

"_Imp—"_ she began at the same time Draco started to say, "_Expelliarmus_," but he never finished, the word dying in his throat because there was no need. Before Maroo could get to the "erio" of her spell, she was knocked forward onto her face from a Stupefy from behind.

Luna Lovegood was standing just behind the spot Una had been, looking curiously at him. "It looked like you needed some help," she said simply.

His mind had practically shut down. "What?"

"Too bad. I liked Una. Her name rhymes with mine, you know," Lovegood said, moving forward to pull the gate open and gesturing for him to hop down from the rung and bars he was clinging to. He practically had to force himself to let go, and then he sagged for a moment.

"It's a good thing I was on my way to my internship," Lovegood said.

"Internship?" Draco asked blankly, staring down at the back of Maroo's head. Her hair was everywhere, and the light spring breeze was tossing it about almost playfully.

"Oh, yes," Lovegood continued. "I work in the Department of Mysteries. By the way, Draco, there was something I've been meaning to tell you about that, but it keeps slipping my mind."

Reluctantly, Draco turned to look at his savior. His very odd, very calm savior. "What's that?"

"Well," she said, "it's just that I was dusting in the Hall of Prophecies, and I happened to see one with your name on it." She smiled dreamily. "I couldn't pick it up, of course, but it did say, 'N.C.B.M. to S.P.T.: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger.' You did say those were your mother's initials, didn't you? How very interesting." She fingered her butterbeer cap necklace. "Well, I'm running late! Tell Professor McGonagall I'll explain what happened later. Oh," and she raised her wand to emit several red sparks in the air, "that should help you." And, with that, Lovegood walked out the gate and Disapparated.

Draco collapsed in a heap on the ground, his palms pressed into the dirt. This was turning into a very trying day.

O

Nineteen and a half years flashed before Hermione Granger's eyes. Nineteen and a half years of thinking she had at least some control over her own destiny. Even when the prophecy about Harry had come true, Hermione had only been affected because, as she'd told herself, she'd chosen to be Harry's friend. She had chosen to help him every step of the way. When it had only been Trelawney, she'd at least been able to tell herself that the woman was faking it. And at the time, there had been every reason to believe the woman had been faking it.

Malfoy on the ground with his sight gone, Hermione above him talking to Trelawney. Trelawney belatedly even realizing Malfoy was there. Trelawney stumbling when Hermione issued the challenge.

It had been real? All this time? It had honest-to-goodness been more than coincidence, more than what McGonagall had suggested about reverse psychology?

At least it hadn't been Trelawney's own prediction. At least there was that. She'd just borrowed it from someone else, someone who happened to be looking at her with a strained gaze.

Her gaze was more than just strained, more than just blue, it was almost pleading. Pleading for something Hermione wasn't even sure she understood. "Miss Parkinson, you stay here and rest. Miss Granger and I are going to go for a little stroll."

Pansy rolled her eyes and crammed more scone into her mouth while Hermione rose to follow Narcissa from the room.

They were silent even after they'd reached the grounds, the sunshine seeming mockingly cheerful, and then Narcissa started speaking just as they were passing by a rosebush. "All I want," she said, "all I have ever wanted is for my son to be happy, safe, and comfortable. These last few years have been trying for me as a mother. Sometimes Draco thinks certain things will make him happy, and he ends up vastly mistaken." At the look on Hermione's face, she laughed. "I don't mean you. I mean when he was given that… that _assignment_," she spat. "But there was little I could do to stop him, and so all I really could do was to try and ensure his success, and thus his safety.

"I know you don't approve. Your Headmaster was a good man, but in this case it was his life or Draco's, and I think you can understand my bias in the matter."

"Yes," Hermione said slowly. She could understand, even if she couldn't empathize.

Narcissa nodded. "I like to think my son has grown since those days. Even with this letter you gave me from him, I can tell. He's becoming his own person, someone who can think for himself and pick and choose for himself beyond a purely selfish basis. He didn't say explicitly that he loves you, but that seems to be the direction he's headed." Narcissa glanced toward her, and Hermione fought not to look away to hide. "I know he will love you," Narcissa continued. "And I know you will love him as well, so you can understand what I mean when I say that you are what is currently best for him. You are what will give him happiness." She stopped and sat down on a bench, and Hermione followed.

"I don't think Pansy could ever make him happy in that same way. And this situation…. Do you think I'm coddling him by keeping this from him?"

Hermione opened her mouth, and nothing came out for a long moment. "He will need to know," she said eventually. "And… I don't know if he'll be happy that you kept this from him."

Narcissa nodded. "I know." She looked wistfully off toward an apple tree. "And that's where you come in." Narcissa looked back at her then, and Hermione found herself shrinking back. "I'll leave this for you to decide. This concerns you now. You can choose to tell him when the time is best. A letter just won't do in this situation, and it's not as if Draco can go to visit Pansy even if he wants to, nor can Pansy go to visit him. But the baby… the baby won't have these same restrictions. He—she insists the baby is a he—won't be born with a manacle on his wrist like the rest of us. And," Narcissa actually gripped Hermione's hands in her own, which seemed odd, considering that Hermione had expected to be met with nothing but prejudice, "I can't be sure, but I doubt Pansy will survive the birth. Do you understand?"

Narcissa's fingers were cold, and Hermione felt her throat closing up. "I think I do," she responded.

"If Pansy doesn't survive," Narcissa prompted.

"Then you want me to bring the baby to Draco," Hermione finished. There was a prickling feeling at the corners of her eyes.

"I don't know you very well, but… if it comes to it, I think you would be a good step-mother to the child," Narcissa said, her voice too calm, her demeanor too calm.

This relationship had just gotten much, much more serious than Hermione had ever dreamed, and as she stood to leave, all she could think about was that day in Good Grief class, when Malfoy had drawn a face and a nappy on an egg, and they'd dubbed it Eggletina.

She was too young. They were all too young.

O

Hermione felt sick as she turned the knob to enter the common room, and she wasn't overly surprised to see Malfoy sitting on the sofa, waiting for her. However, she was surprised that he wasn't doing anything. He was sitting and sitting only, just sort of staring into his lap. "You're back," he said, and that was when she realized just how awful he looked: sort of shaky and nervous, curled in on himself.

"Are you okay?"

He hesitated before shaking his head no. "I… was attacked," he said delicately.

"What?"

He groaned. "After you left, while I was still at the gate, someone came up from behind me and stuck their wand into my back."

The bile that had been threatening to climb her esophagus the whole day made another terrific lurch upward, and she fell down onto the sofa beside him, clutching her stomach. "What did they want?"

The question seemed to have a funny effect on him, and he very nearly laughed. "I don't think you want to know."

"All right… then, who was it? How did you get away? Have you reported it?"

"I talked to McGonagall. I have to be back in her office at six, once Luna Lovegood gets back from her internship."

"Luna?"

"She's the one who saved me," he replied, and this time he did laugh, though it sounded kind of off, and then, just as abruptly, he was all business again. "Una Maroo. Una Maroo is the one who attacked me."

Hermione had to concentrate before she could draw up a face to go along with the name. "Did she hurt you?"

"No. Didn't get the chance." His eyes met hers briefly before he turned them down again.

"Draco," at this point, there was no reason not to use his name, "what happened?" She reached out to take his hand, and he flinched before allowing her to hold it.

"She… was going to… violate me," he said, sounding uncertain. "She wanted me to impregnate her," he added, "in order not to 'waste my line.'"

"Oh." She was about to let his hand go, but his grip tightened.

"Can you imagine?" His free hand rose to rub harshly at his face, and then he reached out to her, and she reluctantly slipped into his arms. His nose pressed into her hair. He didn't say anything else, just kept drawing her closer and closer to him, his breathing irregular.

Imagine? She wished more than anything that she couldn't.

O

A.N. I can't wait for the big reveal that Pansy's baby is actually the reincarnation of Snape! Um, APRIL FOOLS, one day early.


	30. Surrender

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 30—Surrender

Draco considered it highly fortunate that he'd had Lovegood as a witness, even if she didn't often seem like a reliable source. She was apparently extremely truthful, though she did have a tendency to believe in things that weren't real—in which case she'd tell what she believed to be the truth. He'd found that out when he'd sat with her in McGonagall's office, and Lovegood had calmly suggested he shake the whinging flib off of his head.

McGonagall had insisted on a full testimony from each of them, and then she'd double-checked Draco's wand with priori incantatem. Although she'd been a little suspicious when the echo of a flower had come out of his wand, she'd seemed satisfied enough that it had been Luna who'd cast the stupefy.

Telling the Headmistress the finer details of the attack had been… unpleasant. "I see," she finally said, and then she'd announced that she'd be talking with the current Head of Slytherin House about expelling Maroo.

O

Amorell had a ring of daisies on her head, like a coronet—almost looking like she'd stepped right out of the pages of _Heidi_, except without the goats. "I trust you all had a good weekend?" she asked, and Hermione suppressed the urge to scream.

She hadn't had the nerve to tell Malfoy about her visit to his mother, and, maybe not surprisingly, he hadn't asked about it. He'd been distant the last two days, quiet and contemplative. Even Ron had noticed something was wrong, and that was saying something.

"I have a little surprise prepared for you," Amorell continued, her signature smile lighting up her face. "Today we'll be having a test!"

There was a collective groan throughout the room followed by Dean and August banging their heads against their desks.

"Now, now. Nothing to worry about. We'll just be checking your progress." She hopped down from her desk and walked over to the side of it, patting the surface. "Ladies line up over here," she gestured to the area behind her desk, "and men line up over here." She gestured to the front. "You'll be catching your partners again, just like you did on the first day of class."

Hermione stood, glancing at Malfoy, and it was as if the sun had suddenly prevailed over a cloud and managed to peek its way through, the dark expression on his face fading as he straightened and turned his head. He winked at her. Now that they were a couple, he'd probably actually enjoy catching her.

The git. Though that thought lacked its usual venom, she realized.

She had to admit, as she joined the queue behind the desk, that they actually had progressed since that first day of school. If nothing else, Amorell had ensured that each of them got to know (and trust) their respective partner far more than they ever would have previously.

Ron was at the front of the desk, his arms ready to catch August, who still gave him a small distrusting look, but she fell back into his arms without any further complaint. Harry caught Hannah, and they grinned at one another before he set her down. Then Padma gave Dean a shrug before she turned around and fell into his awaiting arms.

And then it was their turn. Hermione could feel Ron and Harry watching her less than discreetly, but they weren't the ones she was interested in at the moment. That went to the other boy. Other young man, she should say. Malfoy stood in front of the desk, his arms wide and a teasing grin on his face that looked less forced than any of the others she'd seen on him since the attack.

Hermione turned around, a sudden wave of nerves flowing through her for a very different reason than they had the first time she'd done this. She did trust him this time, and somehow that was a problem.

She trusted him, and he, she wagered, trusted her.

Her heels rocked back from the edge of the desk, and before she could even think the word "concussion," she found herself being cradled against his chest in an odd cross between bridle style and baby style.

He looked at her, and there was a moment when she thought he was going to bend down and kiss her, but instead his chin just rubbed against the crown of her head before he set her on her feet, his arms wrapping around her waist to keep her back pressed against his chest. From the way Ron and Harry were scowling, she'd wager Malfoy was smirking at them from behind her head.

"I've been in a funk, haven't I?" he whispered into her ear, only loud enough for her to hear.

Her shoulders stiffened. "It's perfectly understandable."

"But not fair for you. You look like you're more bothered by it than I am… right now, anyway," he added, his voice sinking down into a bitter tone. "I want to make it up to you." He had to pause a moment while Amorell cheerfully told them that all the men in the class would be blinded, again, and led around the castle—again. His tone hastened just as his grip around her tightened. "They're all going to Weasley's match next Saturday, right? We can have some alone time for once." He waited for her nod, and then he let go, just his hand gripping hers now, almost a little too tightly.

Hermione squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, feeling slightly dizzy. That would have to be the day. She'd have to tell him then, even if the idea did frighten her for a reason she didn't want to name, because naming it would make it all too real.

O

The days ticked by like the minute hand of a broken clock—sometimes too quickly, and sometimes all too slowly. Saturday meant that a week had gone by and that half of the time Hermione had been given to tell him before the baby was due was now gone. One more week. It could be any day, really.

The idea of NEWTs was starting to make her feel sick. If she'd taken them a week and a half ago, she'd have been fine, but now… now there was just too much else to think about without cramming figures and arm movements and potion ingredients into her brain, too.

And why? Why did that prophecy need to be real? She'd been doing such a good job of ignoring it these last two months.

She heard Ron get up and leave at quarter to five, and then she'd just lain in her bed, trying to fall back asleep again. It felt like Valentine's all over again, except… not even close to the same. That seemed downright cheerful to her now.

The match was scheduled for noon, and Harry, Ginny, Dean, Padma, August, and Hannah were all leaving around eleven-thirty. She knew Malfoy was planning some sort of surprise, something more than just their usual studying and occasional game of wizards' chess. Frankly, that was making it worse, that he felt he needed to make this up to her, just because he'd nearly been raped and thought his bad mood had spread to her. What ever happened to that Draco Malfoy she knew who'd sooner be the cause of her upset than apologize for it?

She went down to breakfast at nine, having managed to fall back asleep for a few more hours, and then she just wandered around the castle for awhile, too nervous to do anything else.

_Draco, guess what? Your ex is having your baby and will probably die in the process because she spent the first trimester and then some in Azkaban. But don't worry; your mum says she prophesied that we're meant to fall in love, and she thinks I'll make a good step-mum. Isn't that nice? I'm sure we can find someone to babysit while we sit the NEWTs._

"Well, if it isn't Granger." Hermione looked up to find Astoria Greengrass coming at her from the opposite direction. "Something on your mind? You look troubled." She pursed her lips, not really looking even slightly concerned.

Hermione was about to snap at her with a less than witty retort, but then she paused, really looking at Astoria for what felt like the first time. "You get on well with your sister?" she asked. "Daphne?"

Astoria looked slightly taken aback. "Well enough," she responded, furrowing her brow.

"So you know, then?"

"Know what?"

"About it."

"It?"

"Yes."

Greengrass looked genuinely confused. "You mean… Pansy?" she asked, looking almost reluctant.

Hermione nodded.

"Er, yes." Greengrass straightened. "I know she's out of Azkaban," she said coolly. "The question is: how do you know?"

Hermione shook her head. "Never mind how I know. Is that all you know?"

And Greengrass looked confused again. "Is there more to it?"

Satisfied, Hermione didn't reply, and simply walked off. So Daphne hadn't told her sister everything, it would seem. For a moment, she'd wondered if Astoria had known about the pregnancy for months, but it seemed she'd only known that Pansy was out of prison, which might explain some of her gloating if she thought Malfoy would either be in trouble with Pansy or promptly dump Hermione for Pansy.

She had to wait awhile longer before eleven-thirty finally arrived, at which point she sluggishly headed back to the common room. The door opened before she got the chance to turn the knob, and suddenly she was roughly yanked into the room.

"Morning," Malfoy said briefly before he swiftly pulled her to him, his lips descending on hers so quickly she let out a little "oomph!" sound. This wasn't quite the surprise she'd been expecting, but she was too preoccupied to give it very much thought.

His hands swept slowly up her back and into her hair, and then one arm dropped down to her back again before the other reached down to tuck itself under her knees, lifting her into the air. Hermione's eyes snapped open again, and she temporarily pulled her mouth away to make sure he didn't drop her as he strode to the couch, setting her purposefully on his lap.

The analytical side of Hermione's brain, which was, admittedly, the more dominant, wondered if this was his way of reasserting his masculinity.

He stared at her for a long moment, his hand pushing her hair back from her face before he pressed his lips to the corner of her jaw and then down a fraction of an inch to just below her ear.

Well, this was….

There was the warm dampness of the tip of his tongue on her earlobe, followed by a brief nipping of teeth.

This was something, all right.

His mouth moved lower, down the side of her neck, igniting goose bumps over her legs. His thumb hooked sideways, moving both sleeve and bra strap just off her shoulder, another kiss pressing there.

The same hand moved down to her waist, just beneath the hem of her shirt, his fingers wrapping loosely over her side, and then—his thumb brushed beneath the waistband of her pants, just barely into the taut curve of her hip bone.

An invisible switch was thrown abruptly on inside her head.

Hermione reared back and almost landed on the sofa cushion next to her, words tumbling from her mouth without her consent: "I'm waiting for marriage."

…She was?

A very odd caricature of a ballooned Pansy floated briefly to the forefront of her mind before being squashed back. It was only partially a lie. She'd never gotten around to it before, and so, technically, she'd waited so far… right? She'd just never really decided that she….

Her hand scrambled up to correct her sleeve. He was staring at her, looking almost as surprised as she was. He slowly frowned and took her hand in his, his head ducking closer to hers until their eyes were on level. "You're worth waiting for."

And then it was as if a different switch was thrown.

O

Draco watched, almost horrified, as Granger's lower lip trembled and the first telltale sign of tears glistened in her eyes before, abruptly, she had flung her arms around his neck, latching on very, very tightly.

These were not quiet sobs. Not even close. These were loud, wet, and gasping. Her nose was buried in between his neck and collar, and it was very obviously running. "I love you," she whispered in a choked voice, an odd sort of desperation in her confession. Her grip tightened.

He caught and released a breath, difficult with her holding onto him the way she was. "I love you, too."

If possible, her grip tightened even further. She sounded like she was suffocating, hyperventilating—almost the rattling sound of a dementor.

He ran his hand down her back, gently over her spine and up again. What else was he supposed to do? "Please don't cry."

Her head twisted, now burrowing her forehead into his neck instead of her nose. "I—I need to tell you something."

What was possibly left to be said? She didn't want to have sex, he was okay with it, and now they'd apparently surrendered to the L word.

Her sobs died down enough for her to catch her breath. "I didn't want to tell you." Her voice was strained. "Especially not after what happened to you."

"You can tell me. I'm a big boy," he said, though suddenly he was feeling very small, holding her in his arms like this, with whatever it was hanging above them like Damocles' sword.

"You didn't ask about my trip to see your mother," she said softly.

He stiffened. "Did she…?" He hadn't had the guts to tell Granger about what Lovegood had said. That prophecy was sticky business with them.

Her head shook back and forth, narrowly missing his chin. "She wasn't alone," she said, her voice falling until he could only barely hear.

"Who was there?" he asked skeptically.

Her grip tightened again. "Pansy."

"Pansy?" Draco repeated. "I don't understand. She's supposed to be in Azkaban."

"They let her out." There was a short pause. "Because she's pregnant," she finally added. And now it was her nose in his neck again.

Draco's stomach reacted before anything else. It felt like he'd been hit by a bludger, just above his navel. "Oh."

"She's due in about a week."

He had to close his eyes for a moment. The room was feeling hot, almost humid, but maybe that was just the clammy perspiration between the two of them.

"Mine?"

"According to her." She shifted, still in his lap, but now easing herself to a different portion of his knee.

He mentally counted back nine months. Beginning of August. Unfortunately, all of August and the end of July was a blur of trials and depression. But there, at the back of his memory, was a faint glimmer of an afternoon spent with Pansy, the day after she'd been given her prison sentence but the day before she'd been shipped off. He'd almost forgotten. Seemed a funny thing to forget.

"She didn't get released from Azkaban for several months," Granger said in a monotone. "Her health suffered. Your mother doesn't think she'll survive the birth."

"My mum… knew about this?"

She hesitated. "She wanted to shelter you."

"If it were up to her, I'd never go higher than three feet on a broom."

"She just wants you to be safe. And happy," she said, almost sarcastically.

"Why do you say that?" he asked. It reminded him of his mother's words before he'd gotten on the train in September.

There was another pause as Granger shifted to get more comfortable, and he reached up to wipe a stray tear from her chin. She sighed softly. "Because your mother told me that… _she_ made that prophecy that Trelawney told us." She gave him an unreadable look. "She thinks I'll make you happy."

For one brief, bizarre moment, Draco almost wanted to laugh—almost, but not quite. "I know."

"You know?"

"Lovegood told me. She read it while dusting in the Hall of Prophecies."

Granger relaxed against him. "Figures."

"A baby?" he asked, not sure he'd fully wrapped his mind around any of this just yet.

"Pansy said a boy."

He nodded, trying to knock that into his head, at least. A boy. A pureblooded little Malfoy boy. Maroo would have been proud. He scowled at the thought and retightened his hold on the girl in his lap.

Funny, thinking of all the girls suddenly demanding to or going ahead and bearing his progeny, and the only one he'd actually consider procreating with was also the only one who stipulated wedlock as a precursor. Suddenly, that seemed like a rather nice request—not that he wanted to get married anytime in the near future. He didn't think Granger wanted to either.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked. "I know this is a lot of information all at once. And—a week isn't much to prepare to be a father."

"I don't know." To be quite honest, he really didn't know.

O

A.N. This chapter's a little shorter, but after the sheer grief it gave me writing it, I figured I'd rather not add an extra mini-scene when I'm already at a natural stopping point. I have a rough estimate of two more chapters, though I could be wrong, plus an epilogue. I really want to finish before I graduate next month, which means writing during finals. Ugh.


	31. Of Ermines and Roses

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 31—Of Ermines and Roses

The ermine and the stoat are the exact same creature, save one minor difference. The ermine is white during the winter, and the stoat is brown during the summer. Interestingly, in Leonardo Da Vinci's painting, "Lady with an Ermine," the ermine is said to more closely resemble a white ferret.

Ermine young are born in May or June.

O

When Hermione held hands with Malfoy, the silver charm on the bracelet Ron had given her for her birthday tended to make a tinkling sound as it tapped against his manacle. She normally wasn't sure whether she liked that sound or not. Today, however, there was something reassuring about that sound. It might have had something to do with the fact that Ron and Ginny were currently smiling like idiots, having received word that Bill and Fleur Weasley's daughter, Victoire, had just arrived into this world. She'd nearly forgotten Fleur was even pregnant, and now, here it was, the second of May, the one year anniversary of The Final Battle—and Pansy was one day overdue.

Hermione's knees were wobbly.

It was half-past seven in the morning, and a Sunday. Strictly speaking, Ginny was not supposed to be in the Eighth Year common room, seeing how she was a Seventh Year, but Head Girl had to have some perks, after all. Besides, this was a momentous occasion, a day of celebration. It wasn't everyday that Ginny became an aunt and Ron an uncle. Harry, Hermione supposed, was as good as an uncle now too, by extension. Even August, sitting and looking sleepy with her head on Ron's shoulder, might be considered an aunt of sorts.

"Mum says it's hard to tell so far, but she might be strawberry-blonde," Ginny said, beaming. "Not that she has much hair."

"Funny thinking of Bill as a dad," Ron commented. He was wearing his pajamas, which, despite the fact that he'd stopped growing, were still two inches short at the ankle.

"Yeah," Ginny agreed. "But he is twenty-eight. It's not as if he's overly young."

Ron frowned. "I know. It's just weird, is all."

Malfoy's hand was being very still in Hermione's. She didn't dare look to see what his expression was like.

"What's that face for?" Harry asked, looking straight at her.

"Hmm?" she asked.

"You look a little scared," Ginny filled in. She took a glance at Malfoy. "You both look out of sorts. Is the baby talk getting you down?" she asked, stifling a smile.

"We're fine," Malfoy replied bluntly. His hand pulled away from hers, and he disappeared down the spiral stairs.

"That… was odd," Ginny said.

"It's Malfoy. What do you expect?" Ron asked, his head lolling over to rest on top of August's. "Should we call her Vicky or Toire?"

O

Hermione was starting to feel… jumpy. Maybe she wasn't just starting to feel that way. She _did_ feel that way. Anytime now, there was bound to be an owl swooping down, bidding her to go to the Manor. She knew better than to expect a smiling head poking through the fireplace, like Mrs. Weasley's had done when she'd alerted Ron and Ginny that morning.

"You really don't look good," Harry said, sitting across from her at breakfast. "I mean, I don't mean you look _bad,_ just not well," he hurriedly corrected himself before stuffing a slice of toast in his mouth.

Hermione gave him a small smile. "Good save."

Harry finished chewing his toast and frowned at her. "Anything you want to talk about? You've been kind of off for the last few weeks. Malfoy too, actually."

Hermione sighed, looking wistfully up at the open windows where owls usually entered the Great Hall. "What are you going to do?" she asked him.

"About…?" he asked.

"I mean after Hogwarts. Are you taking the teaching position? Something else that would let you see Ginny more often? What's Harry Potter's life going to be like once he's out of school?"

Harry coughed. "Er, thought maybe I'd give McGonagall's offer a go, at least for a year. See if the position isn't cursed still," he added. "Visit Gin when I can."

Hermione nodded and flipped the fried egg on her plate over with her fork, sunny side down. "That's nice," she said, not knowing when her throat had started closing up in that usual harbinger of tears. She took a long sip from her water goblet, hoping to dull the ache.

"And, er, you?" Harry asked, his head bent at an angle, trying to look into her eyes, which were averted.

She shrugged, staring determinedly at the open window as her vision started to blur, but she wouldn't blink.

"Hermione?" Harry tried again tentatively. "Is something wrong?"

"You could say that," she said, her voice cracking slightly.

"Did Malfoy… do something?"

She shook her head.

"But it has something to do with him, doesn't it?" Harry asked, and she nodded. "Can I have a clue?"

She sighed and turned back to face him, still not quite meeting his eyes. "You remember the egg project?"

"Yes," Harry said, sounding tentative. "Did Malfoy send your egg to the kitchens?" He looked pointedly down at her plate, probably hoping to break the tension.

"No." There was a pause, and suddenly Harry's eyes were wide.

"You're not… you're not…." He seemed unable to finish his sentence and pointed toward her stomach.

"No! Though I almost wish—." She bit her lip.

Harry looked confused again. "I don't get it. Is he… impotent?" he asked sourly.

"No!" she repeated. "Ugh." She set her forehead in her hands. "Pansy's pregnant."

Harry's mouth opened slightly. "Oh."

"I know," she said, wiping her forearm across her eyelids.

"He's leaving you, then?"

"No," she said again. "He's not."

"Okay," Harry said, looking like he was trying and failing to rationalize the situation. "Then, what?"

"Pansy's dying."

"Oh," Harry repeated, for lack of anything else to say. "And the, um, baby?"

"Is due."

"Hermione, I—" Harry started, and his face fell. "So if you aren't breaking up and Pansy's… then, what? Are you going to help raise it?"

She paused before taking a stab at her egg with her fork. "What else can I do?" Harry opened his mouth. "That was a rhetorical question."

"All right," he said slowly. "It's not like I wish anything against the kid, or even Malfoy for that matter, but I don't like seeing you forced into this."

"Nobody's forcing me, Harry. Just fate," she added in a quieter voice. She let her eyes wander to the window again, and then down a little to the Slytherin table, where Malfoy was sitting and looking dejected. "I love him."

"The post's here," Harry said, redirecting her to the window again. Out of the corner of her eye, Malfoy's head had turned in the window's direction as well. They all watched as the owl made a lazy arc before fluttering to her side.

O

Nausea. Draco was experiencing nausea. One little trip across the Great Hall, and his world was now changed forever. Granger was holding the letter from his mother in one hand and squeezing his hand with the other. "She's in labor. Your mother sent for a healer, and she'll owl again when it's closer to time. Do you," she paused, "do you want me to go there? Later?"

He glanced at Potter, who was watching their exchange with a bothered expression on his face. Draco nodded, just slightly.

"All right, then," she replied, putting on a braver face than could possibly be real. "It may be awhile, so we'll wait."

"Right," he agreed. "I'll just…." He gestured vaguely at the door before walking away. He wondered if the house-elves would be willing to give him something alcoholic at half-past eight in the morning.

O

The house-elves were, apparently, not too keen on the idea of giving a student "tipsy drinks," of age or no. Bloody things were probably afraid that McGonagall would give them clothes if she found out. He couldn't even barter a butterbeer out of them, though they did give him a cup of tea. Considering the present state of his stomach, that was probably for the best, loath as he was to admit it.

He needed to calm down, think rationally. Tea always seemed to help with that.

He had never been in love with Pansy. He'd liked her, he supposed. She'd been his friend, even if their friendship had been of a fairly superficial nature. It was sort of the same way he'd been friends with Crabbe and Goyle. He'd taken them for granted and used them for his own gains, more than anything else.

If he'd felt guilty about Crabbe, he now felt doubly guilty about Pansy. Truthfully, he'd barely even thought of her since she'd left for Azkaban. He hadn't missed her, had had random musings about her that were more comical than anything else.

There wasn't anything he could do about that now, only hope she'd live.

What if the baby didn't live? No one had said anything about that possibility. If Pansy were that weak, then wouldn't the baby be as well? But then, maybe there was more to his mother's vision than she'd let on. Maybe the baby was meant to live. He hoped so.

It was time to grow up now. There were things to be done. If Granger brought his child back here, then there were a few essential items needed for that to work. Formula, nappies, a crib….

He should probably go talk to McGonagall and see if she'd even let him have the baby here or if his mother would have to babysit for the remainder of the term. Yes. He needed to talk to McGonagall right away, before his baby was born without the basic essentials of life, including somewhere to live.

Where had all of this responsibility come from?

O

Quick steps, up a hallway, turn, panting sounds, the rattling of a doorknob in shaky hands, and Hermione caught sight of Pansy's sweating red face, scrunched up in pain. And then the door was in her face again as Narcissa Malfoy ushered her out of the room.

"I'm glad you came," she said. There was blood on her hands.

"Is everything…?"

"As well as can be expected." Narcissa gave her a look, almost in chastisement. "Did you tell Draco?"

"Yes."

"Good." Narcissa wiped her hands across her thighs, smearing red on her apron. "It shouldn't be too much longer. She's very close."

Hermione nodded, looking nervously at the closed door. "Is there anything I can do to help?" she offered, though she knew the answer before it was given.

"No, no. There's nothing we can do, really." Narcissa shifted. "How is he?"

That was the million pound question, wasn't it? "Nervous."

"Yes, well…." She cleared her throat. "And you?"

Hermione almost wanted to bark out a laugh. "What about me?" she asked bitterly.

That chastising look was back. "No need for the cheek. I'm not exactly pleased about the situation myself."

"Oh, I'm sure you're not." Hermione frowned darkly just as a strangled yelp resounded from the room within. Pansy sounded more than just pained. Pansy sounded like she was struggling just to scream. And then there was silence and the hush of whispers. The door opened.

The healer's face was grim as he leaned toward her. "She wants to speak with you."

"Me?" Hermione asked, but Narcissa was already pushing her through the door she'd barred her from earlier.

Pansy was slumped against a pillow, her chest heaving. The healer took up his station at the foot of the bed, his wand hovering and emitting a purple glow, and Hermione was left standing at the back of the room, not entirely sure what she should be doing. Pansy's lips moved, and a faint mumble came from between them.

"You'll have to get closer," the Healer said, not looking up from his task.

Hermione skittered forward, trying not to look too closely at the blood (and other) stains on the linens. Despite the redness, Pansy's face looked sallow, and there were dark shadows below her eyes. "Can't feel them," the pregnant girl mumbled.

"Can't feel what?"

"She means her legs. She broke her spine a minute ago. She's too weak." The Healer's wand quivered back and forth in a purposeful arc.

"Less pain," Pansy added, though she was still wincing.

Hermione nodded. She really didn't think she, of all people, should be the one at Pansy's side at this moment. Where were her parents? Were they really that ashamed of her? "Got a list," Pansy hissed, her hand lifting feebly to point to her left. "Names. Good," she groaned, "names." On the nightstand was a small piece of folded parchment. Hermione pocketed it, any hope that Pansy might survive this quickly diminishing. "Granger… take care of them." Her eyes fluttered shut, her breathing even more ragged than before.

"Unless you want to watch, I'd suggest you leave." The Healer pointed to the door.

And she really, really didn't want to watch.

O

Professor McGonagall's eyebrows lowered. "Mr. Malfoy, are you quite sure you're prepared for what you're asking of me?"

"All due respect, Headmistress, but I don't think I have much of a choice." Draco shifted uncomfortably. He knew all too well that Dumbledore's portrait was looking at him, judging him, most likely pitying him, and probably doing that twinkly eyes thing.

"Surely your mother or Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson would be able to watch the child for the remainder of the term," she suggested.

"My mother's done enough already. As for the Parkinsons, they've already made it clear where they stand on the issue, otherwise Pansy wouldn't have been rooming with my mother. Besides," Draco added, "I don't like the idea of being separated for a whole month. I mean…. You don't have children, do you, Professor?"

McGonagall pursed her lips. "Maybe not, but I suppose I understand your point." She sighed. "But the fact remains that you will not be available to provide the needed supervision, not while you're in classes. Taking care of a newborn is a fulltime job. And where will it sleep? In your dormitory? You may room with three extraordinarily mature young men," she looked a little uneasy as she said mature, "but I'm sure they won't take well to having their sleep disrupted every few hours."

"But…" Draco began, though he wasn't having much success in thinking of a way to refute her points.

"So," she said, looking thoroughly harassed, "perhaps some new arrangements will have to be made."

For the first time that day, Draco felt something like relief flow through him. "What kind of arrangements?"

McGonagall stood, paced a few steps, and turned to pace the other direction. "I'll arrange to have you take your NEWTS early. If all goes well, you'll have them done within the week. I've noticed your newfound devotion to your studies, and I'm sure you'll do well enough to pass them."

He wasn't entirely sure if that was more relief or sudden panic he was feeling now.

"Second, since you have been offered a teaching position here, I suppose it wouldn't be too imprudent to arrange your new quarters early as well. That's assuming you'll be taking the Potions position?" He nodded vigorously. "Then that should help alleviate some of the concern, though I do wonder how you'll manage to continue your single-parenting once the fall term begins."

"I'm sure I'll come up with something," he said quickly, trying to keep her from changing her mind.

"I'm sure you will." McGonagall reached for a tin atop her desk. "Have a biscuit, Mr. Malfoy. You look like you could use the sugar."

O

The bundle in Hermione's arms was warm and squirming and so small—so unbelievably small. She was suddenly thankful that she'd had some practice with Teddy Lupin, otherwise she might have been unsure about the right way to fold her arms, how to balance the head so that those tiny steel-blue eyes were looking up at her in the dull confusion of newborns rather than in terror. Narcissa spent one long moment with her finger trailing up and down the baby's cheek, and then she'd cleared her throat and begun to lead them to the nearest Floo.

"Take care of them for me," she repeated.

"You'll see them again. Draco's year is almost up, then he'll be able to leave the grounds again. He'll probably want to stay here for the summer."

Narcissa nodded quietly. "We'll see." Her fingers returned to the baby's cheek. "All those months… and she guessed wrong. Let me know what name you decide on."

"We will." Hermione hugged the infant a little closer to her as she activated the Floo, covering the baby's face with its blanket to keep the soot out of the miniature mouth and eyes. Five very long seconds later, and she stepped into McGonagall's office.

O

McGonagall turned, looking surprised, and Draco dropped the biscuit that had been halfway to his mouth. Granger stood there, looking only slightly overwhelmed, with _his_ child in her arms. _His _child. "Let me see him," he said.

She shook her head. "Her."

"What?"

"Pansy was wrong," she said simply. "You have a daughter," she added, just as she placed the baby into his arms. From the corner of his eye, he saw her reach into her pocket. "And apparently," she continued, unfolding a piece of parchment, "Pansy's number one baby name choice for a girl… is Ermengarde."

"Ermengarde?" McGonagall repeated, looking back and forth between the three of them.

"Ermengarde," Granger confirmed, a funny look on her face.

Draco almost laughed, looking down at the tiny, scrunched face that was looking back up at him, just a little cross-eyed. "My little ermine."

Granger stepped closer to look over his shoulder. "I'd say we call her by her middle name, except Pansy wanted Buttercup."

This time he did laugh, which was odd considering how close he felt to tears. "I think we can scrap that one. Something simpler?"

"You don't want a star or a constellation?"

He looked at her, really looked at her. "Erm here is as much yours as mine now. How about _you_ choose."

She smiled sadly, looking down at their baby. "I've always liked Rose."

He nodded in agreement. "Ermengarde Rose, then." The steely-blue eyes fluttered shut. He smiled with pride at the rose that had grown from the ashes.

O

A.N.: Hi! How do you know when a chapter gives me trouble? When there are a billion tiny little scenes and over a month between updates. Ick.

Well, hopefully none of you are too upset about the baby being a girl or the rather odd name I just gave her. Ermengarde came to me a few weeks ago, and I _knew_ I had to work it in somehow or another. (It's a German name; you might remember it from Sara's friend in _A Little Princess._) As for Rose, the whole "Ron and Hermione's canon daughter" thing is almost just a happy coincidence, what with the flower theme and the fic summary. Buttercup is the result of my scrolling through lots and lots of flower meanings, looking for something that would be suitable and mostly failing. (That one happens to mean childishness and riches.) Roses, on the other hand, have so many meanings that pretty much anything goes.


	32. Crystal Clear

Eight and Eighth—Chapter 32—Crystal Clear

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

Hermione looked up, a little startled by Draco's sudden appearance next to the cradle. She'd been staring. He reached a hand in and smoothed a finger over the baby-fine (obviously) hairs on the crown of his daughter's head. They were a very pale brown for now, but that was certainly subject to change. "You're sure you'll be all right with her while I'm taking my Potions NEWT?"

Hermione gave him a look. "I'll be _fine_. Now go."

He looked hesitant. "Are you sure?"

Hermione almost growled. "_Yes._"

He frowned, his head tipping to the side. "Okay," he said, backing away and looking wistfully between the cradle and her. "I don't think it will take me more than an hour and a half. I'll be back soo—."

"Just go, already."

He held his hands up. "Going."

"Bye."

The door to Draco's new professor's quarters clicked shut. Hermione breathed out—more than just a sigh, almost a groan. Every nerve in her felt taut. This was all too much. So much stress. She felt almost trapped. Trapped between a boy she was fairly certain she was in love with despite the odds, multiple promises to watch after him, a beautiful innocent baby who wasn't her own, promises to take care of her as well, and a prophecy—the thing that started it all, though Ermengarde would have been around regardless, she supposed.

Her own NEWTs were coming, and she felt less stress about them than about anything else that was going on.

Ermie-Rosie (Hermione was still working out what to call her) opened her eyes, her mouth trembled, and a small, baleful cry resonated around the room. Hermione was very careful in picking her up, and she sat down in a chair at Draco's desk to feed her.

She felt a little more calm as the baby formula glugged and gurgled into the awaiting mouth. "Shh…. Shh…. Your mummy is gone, but I'm here, and your daddy will be back soon. Shh…."

O

Draco's hand was shaking by the time he marked the final end stop at the end of his final essay. He was done. His NEWTs were over, more than a month early, and he was officially done with school. The only thing still keeping him here was the manacle and a certain girl.

Why had he ever been afraid of NEWTs? A few days worth of heavy thinking, brewing, and wand-waving, and that was it. Granted, he hadn't gotten his score back yet, so maybe the relief was a little premature.

Done. What a lovely word that was. _Done_. A very immature piece of his former self still hoped he had done as well as Hermione ultimately would once she took the NEWTs herself. He wasn't fool enough to think he'd actually done better. That was just laughable.

"I'll take that," McGonagall said, rising from her seat behind her desk and taking the parchment from him. She took a cursory glance at it, just enough to make sure he'd remembered to sign his name to it, and rolled it up. "You'll receive your marks in July with everyone else. Now, I suggest you go relieve Miss Granger from her babysitting duties, as she has class in," she checked her watch, "thirteen minutes."

"Thank you, Professor," Draco said, less from the ingrained politeness toward adults he'd been taught to use as a child than from an actual sense of gratitude, one based entirely on the fact that she'd just done him a gigantic favor. Granger was rubbing off on him in the worst way.

He stood up, his limbs feeling slightly jumpy still from all his frazzled exam nerves.

"And Mr. Malfoy?" McGonagall added just as he was reaching for the door.

"Yes, Professor?"

McGonagall's lips pursed for just a moment, as if she'd been sucking a lemon or bitten into an ant. "If you should happen to be in the vicinity of my office with your child and need a moment with your hands… _free_, do consider dropping by." There was a subtle twitch at the corner of her mouth.

"With my hands free?" Draco repeated.

"If you need a moment with her out of your arms. To stretch," she added, not blinking.

"Er… of course, Professor," Draco said carefully, trying to stifle his smirk.

McGonagall liked babies. McGonagall liked _his_ baby. There had to be a way to exploit that one. He ducked his head as he left the room, heading back to his new quarters.

It had taken him just under a week to complete his exams, which was frankly amazing considering that the practical exams had required the presence of the NEWT examiners. He was lucky they'd agreed to come at such short notice. He was fairly sure that at least one of them, a man with pudge to rival Slughorn's and a nose to rival Snape's, had only come to jeer at him and shake his cane threateningly. How very encouraging.

He picked up his pace a little. Making Granger late for class… probably not a very wise move.

O

If balloons ever wore belts around them, then that would have been exactly how Hermione's chest felt. Constriction was the technical term. Balloon belt was the analogy.

It had been just a little under three months now since she had allowed her foot to miss its step. It was like falling up, with only the other stairs to catch her—except there had been something else. There had been a hand, which, to be deathly honest, she hadn't been sure she could trust. Would it pull her in or pull away, leaving her for a pratfall? Did she even want it to pull her in?

Those months had been surprisingly peaceful, with the exception of outside influences. Between them—and that was what mattered, really—everything had been fine, maybe even better than fine.

Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger: better than fine.

Who could have guessed? Certainly not her.

At some point in all the drama of the last few weeks—okay, so she knew exactly which point it had been—she'd admitted to herself that this was more than just an experiment in happiness. This was love, weird and daunting as it was to think about.

She loved Draco Malfoy. …And he loved her, which was possibly even more weird and daunting. It wasn't so long ago that she would have reserved his feelings of love to Quidditch, money, and sneering.

He'd given her the password into his quarters, begged her (with flowers no less) to help watch his baby while he took his exams and crammed in last minute studying, and in the evenings, he'd sat slumped next to her, fondly holding her hand as he stared blearily into space, twitching occasionally at the slightest noise from the cradle. And she found it endearing, which was another weird and daunting thing.

"Hermione?" She turned in her seat at the back of the—suddenly empty—Charms classroom. "You okay?"

It was Ron. Good old Ron, with his ever-faithful dash of dirt on the side of his nose and a chocolate frog half-nibbled in his right hand. She shrugged.

"So…" he said slowly. "Malfoy has a kid, huh?" He wasn't just being slow on the uptake, she knew. He just hadn't had the nerve to broach the topic with her, not that she could blame him.

"That's right."

"Weird." And daunting. "Pansy's… right?"

"Right."

Ron sat chewing for a moment, and then he sat his chocolate frog down delicately. "Did I ever get around to saying that I'm sorry?"

"Maybe?" She couldn't really remember. The trip-snog-break-up incident felt so long ago now.

"Well, in case I didn't, just wanted to let you know that I, you know, am." He cleared his throat. "And I'm also sorry for being a git about you and what's-his-ferret. It's your life, and you can do what you want with it. That doesn't mean I'm going to approve or anything—but I am the one who messed us up, so I shouldn't be complaining."

She gave him a small, grateful smile. "Thank you."

He smiled back, broke off a frog leg, and gave it to her. "Friends?"

"Always," she confirmed. "How about you; are you and August getting on well?"

Ron almost laughed. "Dunno, really. I like her and all, but…" he lowered his voice, "the height difference might be a problem. I'm getting back aches from bending over to kiss her." He blushed slightly. "And we argue a lot," he added.

Hermione grinned. "That sounds familiar."

Ron looked skeptical. "What, me and you or you and Malfoy?"

She had to laugh. "Both. I don't know what to say about the back problem, but the arguing thing… that just depends on whether you think that'll prove to be a problem. I mean, you _do_ tend to argue with all of your loved ones, Ron."

He grinned goofily. "Can't _argue_ with you there." He winked for good measure before frowning. "But the funny thing is, you haven't been."

"Huh?"

"You and Malfoy. You haven't been arguing. Not really. At least, not in front of me," he added.

"Yeah, well…." She squirmed a little. "I mean, it's been hectic lately, what with… everything. It's been too serious to squabble over the little things." She frowned. "Honestly, it's been too serious lately to relax enough to have a row at all."

Ron opened his mouth as if to say something, then pushed the rest of his chocolate frog into it instead, munching thoughtfully. "Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think maybe you're in over your head? I know you… ugh, have feelings for him and," he made a face, "stuff, but are you sure this is what you want? You don't have to do this. You really don't. He'll have his mum to help him once summer's over, and he'll have access to his vaults again. He doesn't have to take that teaching job. You don't have to be with him if it's too much to handle." His hand slipped over hers. "You really don't have to always be the mature and responsible one. You deserve to live your life, too."

He was looking at her very intensely, those flecks of blue in his eyes that she used to be transfixed with giving her pause. "Ron, I—" she had to clear her throat, "I—."

"Just think about it," he said softly. "Just remember that you always have a choice." He squeezed her hand. "Do what's best for you."

She found herself nodding.

O

It had been a very long time since Hermione had climbed the ladder that led to Trelawney's classroom, but when she entered, the poufs and saccharine odor were exactly as she remembered them, if not fouler. She had to fight off her urge to go crack a window.

Trelawney was humming something quiet and mockingly eerie, the end of a quill in her mouth as she sat poised over a batch of star charts that needed checking. When she looked up, the feather stuck to her lower lip for a moment before dropping away.

"Miss… Granger?" she asked.

Hermione nodded, striding forward to sit down on the pouf across from her least favorite professor. "Why did Professor Amorell think that Draco and I were getting married?"

Trelawney gave her a funny look. "You don't beat around the bush, do you?"

"Not today, anyway," Hermione responded, leaning back with her arms crossed.

Trelawney gave her a tight smile. "I could tell you… or I could show you." She stood, began fixing a pot of tea, and returned with one cup, something powdery and pink in a jar, and a crystal ball, complete with stand. "Essence of puffskein, to clear your aura. It certainly needs it," she added under her breath. She pinched some of the puffskein powder into the cup, topped it off with tea, and gave it a stir. She offered it to Hermione, who accepted it, though with a raised eyebrow. "And," Trelawney added, just as Hermione was about to bring it to her lips, "just a dash of brandy, for mellowing."

"Right," Hermione said, taking a sniff of her drink before taking a reluctant sip. It wasn't that bad, actually.

Trelawney's hands wavered and shifted above the crystal ball. "Now… just let your eyes come unfocused… look deeply, but not too deeply…."

That brandy must have been stronger than Hermione had thought. The room was spinning, and the fumes were starting to get to her head. Then, just as everything was beginning to climax into a crescendo of whooshing blood sloshing around in her brain, her body relaxed, and she slumped forward.

There was a picture in the crystal ball. It wasn't a wedding, at least, she didn't think it was, though she was wearing a nice summer dress. Draco was beside her, talking to a man she didn't recognize, joking the way a businessman joked with a client. But what caught Hermione's attention was the little girl on her hip. Ash-blonde hair, wispy, and a pink dress covered with little white roses. The girl's little thumb kept popping into her mouth, and crystal-Hermione kept pulling it out again, as if she'd done this so many times before, it had become second-nature to her. The child tugged at her sleeve, and she was set down.

The crystal didn't give off any sound, yet Hermione found herself straining her ears anyway. Her alter-self had taken to leaning against Draco's shoulder, and now she had joined in on the conversation, too.

Ermengarde's head peeked between Hermione's ankles, and then, just as she'd bent over to pick her up again, there it was. A tiny sparkle on her left hand.

"And that's that, dear." Trelawney had yanked the crystal ball away to put on a shelf.

About two years. They'd be engaged in about two years. So that answered that question. She had wondered, however briefly, if the prophecy had been half-baked. They'd fallen in love, yes. But no one had said anything about staying together.

So now she knew.

O

He wasn't sure why he was knocking. He still knew the password, and he'd only just stopped living there a little over a week ago. He shifted Erm (or E.R.M., as he had realized four days prior, almost smacking himself in the face) in his arms, not sure he was looking forward to the days when she still couldn't walk but was much, much heavier.

Half a minute of waiting and his patience had already worn thin.

"Aunt Morgana's Best Digestive Biscuits," he muttered, watching the Merlin statue shift out of his way.

No one was in the common room when he entered, and so he carefully made his way down the spiral stairs, knocking on the right-hand door. There were footsteps, and Patil appeared in front of him. She looked dubiously at Ermengarde, then back up at him with a bored expression. "Hermione's just left to visit you. I'm surprised your paths didn't cross, honestly. Babies…" she added, with a distasteful look on her face, "what is _wrong_ with everyone?" She shook her head, going back into the dormitory and closing the door in his face.

"What was that about?" he muttered. He was just ascending the stairs when he heard the door open from above, and then, there she was, staring down at him from the top of the spiral.

"There you are," they said in unison, but apparently she hadn't been speaking to him, because the moment they met on the stairs, she took Erm away, snuggling against her with a big, sappy grin on her face.

"Oh, I missed you," she said, again speaking to his baby and not to him. He cleared his throat, and she looked over at him, smiling. "And I missed you, too," she said, leaning forward slightly. She'd probably only meant to peck him on the lips, but there was something about her good mood that made him feel like breathing her in, and so he did, giving her a kiss.

He withdrew after a moment, frowning. "Have you been drinking?" There was a funny tang in his mouth, like brandy and something else. What, he couldn't fathom.

She laughed. "Only a bit," she said mischievously.

He was still frowning. "You… okay?"

She rolled her eyes. "Relax, Draco. I'm just happy, that's all."

"Oh."

She patted him with her free hand. "Come on. It's a lovely day outside. Let's get some air. Roses need sunlight too, you know," she said, nodding toward Ermengarde.

He followed her out onto the grounds, where the sun was indeed shining. Quite a few of the students had had the same idea, out practicing Quidditch and tossing around fanged Frisbees that they'd somehow managed to get past Filch—but were now having trouble hiding from the Deputy Head Girl. He found himself feeling a little smug, watching her deduct House Points and awarding detentions.

He wrapped an arm around her waist as they strolled.

"Hermione?" he asked, once the three of them were seated by the lake's shore under a tree, watching the squid scuttling to and fro to the amazement of a group of first years nearby, who, to Draco's chagrin, didn't seem the least bit intimidated by his proximity.

"Yes?" she asked, lifting her head from his shoulder.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

She looked over at him, her head tilting to the side and a pleasant expression on her face. Ermengarde was asleep in her lap. "I make you happy, don't I?" she asked.

"Very much so," he replied, a little uncomfortably.

"It just sort of occurred to me," she said slowly. "I'm happy too, so why should I fight it? Why shouldn't I take a chance on happiness, like your white violet suggested?" She carefully withdrew her wand without waking the baby. "Here, Draco, a figwort for future happiness."

He caught the flower as she tossed it to him.

"Besides," she continued. "Back when I ended things with Ron, I was worried because I couldn't imagine a future with him. And I think," she paused, "I think our future is already here. And I'm okay with that."

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, she was still sitting there, looking contentedly back at him. He'd almost thought she'd disappear.

So long as she hadn't disappeared….

He slipped into his own personal heaven: kissing Hermione Granger, a small, snoozing cherub lying between them.

The End

O

A.N. Unless I get a brain-transplant (highly unlikely,) there will be an epilogue and there will _not_ be a sequel.


	33. Epilogue

Eight and Eighth—Epilogue

_Where do the children go, between the bright night and darkest day? Where do the children go? And who's that deadly piper who leads them away?_

—"_Where do the Children Go" by The Hooters (1986)_

"Mum, Dad, I'm—" Hermione began.

"Off to visit your boyfriend," her father finished for her, not looking up from his newspaper. "Again."

"You know, dear," her mother said, giving her a pointed look, "you seem awfully serious about this boy. When are you going to invite him over, hmm?"

"Oh," Hermione said. "Well, I guess I could…. It's just…."

"Yes?" her mother prompted.

"It's complicated." She bit down on her lip.

"Complicated how, dear?" her father asked. He looked over to his wife. "Shall we wager a guess or so?"

Hermione sat down, resigned that her parents weren't going to drop the subject that easily, and waited for her mother's response.

"He lives in a magic hatbox, and though you automatically shrink when you go in to visit him, he doesn't get bigger again when he tries to leave the yard." Mrs. Granger said this, all with a straight face and a single finger on the center of her lips.

"No," Hermione said slowly.

"No? Well, then. Is he bigger than a breadbox?"

"_Yes_, Dad."

"Oh, good," her father replied, folding his newspaper. "My turn, then. He has an atrocious case of agoraphobia, and he can't go outside longer than a groundhog on a false spring, over in Canada and the States."

"No. He doesn't have any fears about open spaces that I'm aware of."

"Your turn, dearest," her father said, nodding to his wife.

"All right." Her mother sat for a moment, looking at her. "You're ashamed of something, and you don't want us to know."

Hermione had to frown. "I'm not ashamed. I'm just—I'm not sure what your reaction will be, that's all."

"Reaction to what?" her father asked.

She took a deep breath. Here went nothing. "He has a baby."

Well, that one certainly shut her parents up. "He what?" her mother asked.

"He has a baby. His last girlfriend died in childbirth," she added, gripping the arms of her chair. "He only found out she was even pregnant a week before the due date."

Her parents exchanged a look. "Hermione, are you sure you want to—I mean, getting attached, it's wonderful, but…" her father stuttered.

"I'm old enough to make my own decisions," she replied. "And I've already set my mind on this one." She paused for a moment. "I suppose I could invite them both over, if you'd like."

"Of course," her mother replied, still frowning. Hermione watched the "does this mean I'm a grandmum?" cogs turning in her mother's brain.

Hermione rose. "If that's all, then I'll be going."

"Actually," her father stopped her, "there was some post for you." He got up and shifted through a small pile of papers on the counter before returning with a familiar looking envelope and handing it to her with a smile. "I'm sure you did _wonderfully._"

She hadn't realized just how nervous she'd been over her NEWTs results until just this moment. They'd been on her mind, of course, but she had thought they'd only been there in a clinical sort of way, while she went on to think about more important things.

She'd thought she'd made some progress. Apparently, though, she was still the same results-obsessed Hermione Jean Granger that she'd always been. Her hands were shaking enough to make the letter shutter around in the envelope.

"Aren't you going to open it?" her mother asked.

"In awhile." A small spark of the old competition had been reawakened. She had to see what Draco had gotten and compare. She straightened, still shaking, and turned to walk out of the room. Her parents hated watching her Apparate.

8

Before his seventeenth birthday, Draco had dreaded that one mind-bendingly stupid aspect of summer that forbade him to use magic outside of school. Now, nineteenth birthday successfully acquired and eighth year completed, and he was allowed to use magic again, instead of vice versa.

Merlin, had he missed his bare wrist!

Being able to Accio the nappy bag wasn't bad either.

On the official last day of school at Hogwarts, a member of the Wizengamot had come to call, taken two metal rods and placed them on either side of his manacle, and done a sort of twist that automatically unclasped the restricting mock-bracelet forever.

His mother, unfortunately, still had about a year left with her manacle jingling about her frail wrist, and much as Draco felt inclined to fix that for her, he had a feeling that if he were caught, he'd probably _never_ get the next manacle off, either by means of metal or by permission of the court.

Besides, Hermione would likely flay him.

There was a scraping sound of talon meeting glass upon the window-sill. He let X in, and the owl landed on his new mahogany perch. Draco had gone on a shopping spree the first day of summer, having gone into Gringotts and withdrawn two-hundred galleons from his account. Oh, how he'd missed the deadweight of gold, slapping against his thigh as he strode freely along Diagon Alley. He hadn't even minded the large yellow and blue bruise it created.

He took the letter from X's outstretched leg, turned it over, and was just about to open it when there was a sound of hurried footsteps from the hallway, at which point, Hermione came to a crashing halt in his doorway, breathing heavily. "Wait!"

"What?" he asked, letter frozen halfway into the air.

She waved an identical letter. "We should open them together, don't you think?"

He paused for a moment, furrowing his brow, and then nodded with a shrug. "All right. Quiet, though. Erm's having a kip."

On the count of three, at Hermione's insistence, they tore into their envelopes. Draco's eyes skimmed over the formalities on the first sheet before moving to the second, where a chart with all the different NEWTs he'd taken were placed alongside their respective results. O, O, O… E, O….

One E. That wasn't bad. Compared to his OWLs, that wasn't even slightly bad. The E was in Astronomy, anyway, and that was his class without Hermione, so he'd allowed himself some leeway.

Hermione hadn't looked up yet. He had to lean forward a little to make sure she wasn't still reading over the first page and had actually turned to her results.

"Well?" he prompted.

She looked up and mutely handed the page over to him. It took him a moment to figure out what he was looking at. "What does AR mean?"

"Awaiting results." She was wearing a pout. "There must have been some sort of delay. Or… you don't think there was a problem, do you? I mean, what if I took the wrong test? You don't think I might have skipped a page, or… or something?"

"In all of them? I don't think so." He frowned. "Maybe you did so well, they thought you cheated."

Hermione's eyes went wide. "Really?" She snatched the pages back, quickly reading over the first page. "It just says I should be contacted in another week." She sat down in a huff, her delightful lower lip jutting out in a tempting manner. "How did you do?" He handed her his own results, but her expression remained unchanged. "That's good."

Good? That was all? Good? Stupid E.

"I'm sure you did good, too."

"Well."

"Whatever." He sat down next to her, reclining against his bed post. "Wanna snog?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Your sense of tact leaves something to be desired."

He shrugged. "Worth a shot."

Rather than actually getting closer to, perhaps, snog for a bit, she changed the subject. "We've been invited to Harry's birthday party, by the way."

Draco blanched. "We?"

"That's what I said. He said something about developing his 'Malfoy immunity' in small doses."

"Wonderful. I'm an inoculation."

"And his white blood cells will be beating you up any time now." She smiled at her own bad joke, which Draco wasn't even sure he understood.

"I suppose that might be tolerable," he said slowly, unable to hold back a grimace. "I don't have to get him a gift, do I?"

"You can sign your name and Erm's to mine." She glanced over to the bassinet with _that look_ she'd been getting lately—like she wanted to snuggle his baby to death.

"She'll be awake sooner than I'd prefer. Best to let her at it than to wake her early, I say."

"I know."

Draco yawned. "I could use a nap myself, truth be told. You and Mum help out plenty, but… Merlin would a nanny be nice in the evenings."

"Yes, but you'll probably need to have one almost fulltime once we're teaching, and wouldn't it be better for her to get to know her parents while she can?" Hermione had stood to look over the edge of the bassinet, and Draco watched her for a moment. Parents, plural. He wasn't even sure she realized she had said it.

The way their relationship was advancing was—weird, really. He had wanted to date her, but it still struck him as odd that she wanted to date him, especially once everything had gotten to be so serious so quickly. All he knew was that he didn't want to jinx it. She was here, wanting to be with him and his daughter, and that was enough.

"You want to take her at night, then?" he asked, half-joking.

She paused. "I guess I could. I mean, I'd be able to sound-proof my bedroom, so I'm sure my parents wouldn't mind." She bit her lip. "And by the way, they want to meet you," she said in a rush. "Both."

"Your parents?" he echoed. Her parents. Her Muggle parents wanted to meet him and his baby. That sounded… like a disaster, actually. "I… guess."

"Draco, you're blanching even more than usual."

He had, of course, met Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson before he could even talk, and so had saved himself from that particular experience. He'd never had any other girlfriends, really. They were more like on-the-side snogs. No need to meet the parents for that.

"Well, I'm sure it will be fine," she concluded, not looking entirely convinced herself.

"Hope so. Either that or it will go terribly and your parents will forbid you to ever see me again." He paused. "Your father doesn't own one of those rifle-things, does he?"

"A dentist drill, yes. A rifle—not so much."

There was a miniature mewling sound, indicating that Erm had woken up, and Draco went to her. She was just under three months old now. "Awake, are you?" he asked, picking her up. His nose curled up as he sniffed her nappy. "And you made me a gift, too. You shouldn't have." One Evanesco—he loved his wand so much—and that particular chore was over.

"You know," Hermione said delicately, "we could go now. Get it over with. I'm sure my parents wouldn't mind."

"Now?" he repeated, still in the process of pinning the clean nappy in place.

"Or not. I mean, sooner or later."

He smiled awkwardly. "Later, maybe?" Sweet Merlin, not yet. He smelled like someone who'd been covered in spit-up, and, come to think of it, so did Erm. Besides, some time to wrap his mind around meeting them would probably be best.

"All right. My results should come a week from today, how about then?"

His right eyebrow sprang up. "You sly, sly little Gryffindor."

She feigned confusion. "What?"

"You're pre-planning a mass-bragging. It makes me proud." He took a step toward her.

"No, I'm n—"

He kissed her. "Very proud."

8

Hermione had never been much of a fan of waiting, and sitting with her parents and staring first at the fireplace and then at the open window was not something she found particularly enjoyable. Her mother had made coffee (despite the damage it inflicted on enamel) and sugar-free biscuits, and her father was busy reading a dental journal, his feet propped up on the ottoman.

The owl came first, and she made a mad dash for the window, practically yanking the envelope from the owl's leg and barely sparing a moment to let the thing back out the window again.

"It looks thick," her mother commented, pointing at the envelope.

It was thick. There was definitely more in there than just two sheets of paper. What surprised her, though, was that her name was printed as Professor Hermione Granger instead of Miss Hermione Granger. That had to be a good sign.

No sooner had she started tracing the words with her finger than the floo lit up, and her parents hid their discomfort as their guests arrived in what they considered to be a very Father Christmas-like manner.

Draco was holding tight to Ermengarde, his hand over her nose and mouth to fend off soot. She could tell that he'd had trouble deciding what to wear. He had on a button down shirt and a pair of coal gray trousers, but he also had what looked like a rain poncho slung over his arm and a scally cap on his head. Erm was wearing a frilly green dress and looked puzzled by the whole situation.

"Did you find the place okay?" her father asked, though it looked like he regretted the question almost immediately. "Bob Granger," he added, sticking out his hand as soon as Draco had successfully shifted Erm to only his left arm.

"Nice to meet you," Draco replied, shaking with a bit of hesitancy and pulling his hand away just a bit too quickly. "I'm Draco Malfoy."

"And who's this?" her mother asked, standing to draw nearer to the baby.

"Mum," Hermione said, quick to intervene as much as possible, "this is Ermengarde, or Rose, if you'd prefer. That's her middle name."

Her mother shook her head. "No, no. I like the name Ermengarde. May I?" she asked. At Draco's nod—again a bit hesitant—Hermione's mother took the baby from him. "Amelia, by the way. Just don't call me Amelia Bedelia." This was her mother's standard joke when she introduced herself. Draco didn't get it, obviously.

"I won't," he replied, frowning.

"So," Hermione said, in a bit of a rush. "I just got my results. Shall I open them, then?"

"Go on," her father said, gesturing for everyone to sit. Draco held himself in, looking around warily.

Hermione's hands were literally shaking as she pried off the wax seal and pulled out the packet of parchment. There was a cover letter. "Dear Ms. Granger… had some confusion on our end… weren't sure how your results were even possible… attached are copies of your written exams along with copies of the grading rubrics… your final score is on the last page."

"Last page!" her mother prompted, beaming.

Hermione did as she was told, flipping the final page in the rather hefty stack, and her eyes promptly bulged.

"What, what is it?" Draco asked, looking about ready to rip it from her hands.

"I got eight NEWTs! All O's!" Hermione said. "They must have gotten those practice exams I sent them over the summer before last."

"What?"

"Well, I didn't think I would get to complete my seventh year, so I went ahead and filled out their practice exams. It says they've given me the extra NEWTs honorarily because I did all of them by post, plus the ones I completed in person."

"Wait a minute," Draco said, seeming to have forgotten that her parents were even there. "You got outstandings in classes you never even took? Is that right?"

"Well, yes," Hermione replied, so exceedingly ecstatic that she wasn't sure how to regain control of her mouth muscles enough to stop smiling.

Draco—who had stood—sat down again in a huff. "I never had a chance. Not even slightly," he mumbled. "All that studying, no social life, my eyes were going to fall out—and not a chance."

Hermione's father looked amused, and he clapped a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Not to worry, my boy. That's just how it goes when it comes to we Grangers. I myself was at the top of my class throughout my schooling." He turned to Hermione. "Congratulations, my dear. You've done us proud."

"Thank you, Dad."

"That's wonderful, sweetheart," her mother said, reaching out a baby-free arm for a hug.

"Yeah," Draco echoed halfheartedly. "Great."

"We should celebrate," her father said. "How does sugar-free chocolate sound to you?" Hermione watched as Draco made a face, obviously thinking it would be unsweetened baking chocolate.

"That would be nice," she said, smiling. "Would you like some?" she asked Draco, who continued to look skeptical.

"I think I'll stick to the biscuits. Uh, thanks."

"So, Draco," Hermione's mother said, bouncing Erm on her knee. "Tell me a little about yourself. It sounds like you've studied very hard this year."

"I did," he confirmed, not elaborating.

"And," she continued, "I hear you've also been offered a professorship. Is that right? What subject?"

"That's correct. I'll be teaching Potions."

Hermione watched as her mother nodded, looking only marginally sure what that even entailed. She had once said it was a bit like chemistry, and her parents had found that explanation much more acceptable than, say, her explanation of what she did in transfiguration. "I'm sure it will be difficult, working and caring for your baby at the same time."

"It will," Draco conceded. "I'll have hired help, though, and Hermione, when she's available."

"How fortunate." She took a glance at Hermione. "And that's all right with you, dear?"

"Of course, Mum." To emphasize the point, Hermione reached over and plucked Erm into her lap. She was starting to get a little pudgy in the cheeks, and so far, there was no sign of Pansy's nose.

Hermione blinked. She didn't like thinking of Pansy, for all of the obvious reasons. She couldn't bring herself to resent the dead girl, either. What was past was past, and Pansy, despite some of her choices in life, had ultimately been a victim. It was the future that needed to be attended to now.

There was a call from the kitchen, and Hermione's mother went to help find the chocolate. Mr. Granger never had been good at remembering which cupboard was which.

"I'm having the hardest time believing that you're actually sitting in my living room," Hermione confessed, looking at Draco who was looking around the room a little warily.

"Are those photographs… frozen?" he asked, his nose scrunching up.

"Yes."

"It's kind of… surreal, I guess, being here," he admitted. "If my dad knew, he…." He cut himself off. "Your mum's taken a liking to Ermie, hasn't she?"

"Oh, it's not difficult." Hermione smoothed down some of the baby's hair, which stubbornly popped back up again.

"Granger," he said slowly, "er, Hermione?"

"Yeah?"

"What your mum asked… you're sure? I don't want you to feel like I'm forcing you into—"

"I don't."

"But—"

"Malfoy, really," she said, bouncing Erm on her knee. "I know my options from my obligations. Why does everyone take my intellect for granted, anyway?"

"It's just," there was a peculiar look on his face that she'd never seen there before, "why are you still with me?" She wasn't sure if it was her imagination or not, but it sounded like his voice had cracked. "You said you're happy, but I can't even fathom why that is."

Hermione glanced toward the door, where it sounded like her parents were having some sort of technical difficulty.

"It's _me_, Granger," he prompted.

"And you chose me, which says quite a bit in and of itself, now doesn't it?" she teased. He responded with a grimace of a smile. She sighed slowly, reached over, and took his hand, giving it a squeeze. "Some things just can't be explained. But I know you, and I know the old you, and the two are just that: two. I'm with you, Draco, not the old you. Does that make even the slightest bit of sense?"

He shrugged. "Sort of."

"Good enough."

"DAGNABBIT!" There was a clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen, and they both glanced at the door while Erm startled awake, looked around confusedly, and went right off to sleep again.

Hermione's mother came into the room, a harried look on her face and a set of car keys in her hand. "I think your father broke his toe—nice to meet you, Draco—bye!"

Draco paused, mouth half-open. "Couldn't you fix…?"

"Yes," Hermione groaned. "They always forget that. Excuse me." She stood, handing the baby back to Draco.

"Granger," he said, before she'd gotten across the room.

"Yes?"

"Do you want some help?"

Hermione smiled slowly. And he wondered why she liked him. Pff.

Fin

8

A.N. I think this is officially the summer of writer's block. Sheesh! First off, special thanks to teaandlemonade for the marvelous illustrations! (FF net users, please see the link in my profile. Don't miss out!)

Second, I have a very important announcement. After nearly five years of writing Dramione, I'm retiring. I already knew this was going to happen before I started writing Eight and Eighth. I wanted one last huzzah, and here it is. Despite the, uh, peculiarity of the final plot twist, I'm ultimately pretty happy with this fic. It's very easily my favorite, and I'd like to thank everyone who's taken the time to read and support me throughout this and my previous writing endeavors. Without knowing I had so many people out there waiting for me to update, I don't know if I'd have been able to keep myself motivated, time and time again.

I, unlike Narcissa—apparently—don't know the future, so I might end up writing a few short pieces when the plot bunny strikes me, but I'm convinced that this is my final novel-length. I _need_ to get back to work on my original fiction! I've procrastinated long enough.

With fondest farewells and thanks, your friend,

Marmalade Fever


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